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MODERN  SHORT  STORIES 


A  BOOK  FOR  HIGH  SCHOOLS 


EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 

FREDERICK  HOUK  LAW,  Ph.D. 

Lecturer  in  Eng'lish  in  New  York  University,  and  Head  of 

the  Department  of  E,nglish  in  the  Stuyvesant 

High  School,  New  York  City 


■>        a      % 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1921 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Centuey  Co. 


PREFACE 

For  many  years  high  school  teachers  have  wished  for  books 
of  short  stories  edited  for  high  school  use.  They  have  known 
that  most  novels,  however  interesting,  are  too  long  to  hold 
attention,  and  that  too  few  novels  can  be  read  to  give  proper 
appreciation  of  form  in  narration.  The  essay,  as  seen  in  The 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers,  and  in  Irving 's  Sketch  Book^ 
has  been  a  poor  substitute  for  the  short  story.  High  school 
students  have  longed  for  action,  for  quickness,  for  life,  for 
climax,  for  something  new  and  modern.  Instead,  they  have 
had  hundreds  of  pages,  long  expositions,  descriptions,  leisurely 
treatment,  and  material  drawn  from  the  past.  They  have 
read  such  material  because  they  must,  and  have  turned,  for 
relief,  to  short  stories  in  the  cheaper  magazines. 

The  short  story  is  to-day  our  most  common  literary  product. 
It  is  read  by  everyone.  Not  every  boy  or  girl  will  read  novels 
after  leaving  school,  but  every  boy  or  girl  is  certain  to  read 
short  stories.  It  is  important  in  the  high  school  to  guide 
taste  and  appreciation  in  short  story  reading,  so  that  the 
reading  of  days  when  school  life  is  over  will  be  healthful 
and  upbuilding.  This  important  duty  has  been  recognized 
in  all  the  most  recent  suggestions  for  high  school  reading. 
The  short  story  is  just  beginning  to  take  its  important  place 
in  the  high  school  course.  To  make  use  of  a  book  of  short 
stories  in  high  school  work  is  to  fall  in  line  with  the  most 
modern  developments  in  the  teaching  of  literature  in  the 
high  school. 

Most  collections  of  short  stories  that  have  been  prepared, 
for  school  use,  up  to  the  present,  are  more  or  less  alike  in 

•  •  • 

m 

•t  Vv  A^  Aw  %J  O 


iv  PREFACE 

drawing  much  of  their  material  from  the  past.  Authors  and 
content  alike  are  dead.  Here  is  a  collection  that  is  entirely 
modern.  The  authors  represented  are  among  the  leading 
authors  of  the  day,  the  stories  are  principally  stories  of 
present-day  life,  the  themes  are  themes  of  present-day  thought. 
The  students  who  read  this  book  will  be  more  awake  to  the 
present,  and  will  be  better  citizens  of  to-day. 

The  great  number  of  stories  presented  has  given  oppor- 
tunity to  illustrate  different  types  of  short  story  writing. 
What  could  not  be  done  by  the  class  study  of  many  novels 
may  be  accomplished  by  the  study  of  the  different  stories  in 
this  book.  The  student  will  gain  a  knowledge  of  types,  of 
ways  of  construction,  of  style,  that  he  could  not  gain  other- 
wise except  by  long-continued  study.  Class  study  of  the  short 
story  leads  inevitably  to  keen  appreciation  of  artistic  effects  in 
fiction. 

The  introductory  material,  biographies,  explanations,  and 
notes,  have  been  made  purely  for  high  school  students,  in 
order  to  help  those  who  may  have  read  comparatively  little, 
so  that, — instead  of  being  turned  aside  forever  by  a  dry-as- 
dust  treatment, — they  may  wish  to  proceed  further  in  their 
study. 

It  is  always  pure  delight  to  teach  the  short  story  to  high 
school  classes,  but  it  is  even  more  delightful  when  the  ma- 
terial is  especially  fitted  for  high  school  work.  This  book, 
we  hope,  will  aid  both  teachers  and  pupils  to  come  upon  many 
happy  hours  in  the  class  room. 

The  editor  acknowledges,  with  thanks,  the  kindly  permis- 
sions to  use  copyright  material  that  have  been  granted  by 
the  various  authors  and  publishers.  Complete  acknowledg- 
ments appear  in  the  table  of  contents. 


CONTENTS 

.     PAGE 

Preface i^ 

Introduction 

I  Our  National  Reading vii 

II  The  Definition vii 

III  The  Family  Tree  of  the  Short  Story ix 

IV  A  Good  Story xi 

V  What  Shall  I  Do  with  This  Book? xiii 

VI  Where  to  Find  Some  Good  Short  Stories     .      .     .  xv 

VII  Some  Interesting  Short  Stories xvi 

VIII  What  to  Read  about  the  Short  Story xix 

The  Adventures  of  Simon  and  Su- 
sanna        Joel  Chandler  Harris  3 

From  "Daddy  Jake  and  the  Runaways." 

The  Crow-Child Mary  Mapes  Dodge  9 

From  "The  Land  of  Pluck." 
The  Soul  of  the  Great  Bell  .     .  Lafcadio  Hearn  17 

From  "Some  Chinese  Ghosts." 
The  Ten  Trails Ernest  Thompson  Seton      22 

From  "Woodniyth  and  Fable." 
Where  Lo\^  is,  There  God  is  Also  Count  Leo  Tolstoi  23 

From  "Tales  and  Parables." 

Wood-Ladies Perceval  Gihhon  38 

From  "Scribner's  Magazine." 
On  the  Fever  Ship Bichard  Harding  Davis       53 

From  "The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn." 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Source  of  Irritation"  ....  Stacy  Aumonier  60 

From  ''The  Century  Magazine." 

MoTi    Guj — Mutineer      ....  Rudyard  Kipling  84 

From  "Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills." 

Gulliver  the  Great Walter  A.  Dyer  92 

From  "Gulliver  the  Great  and  Other  Stories." 

Sonny's    Schoolin' Ruth  McEnery  Stuart        105 

From  "Sonny,  a  Christmas  Guest." 

Her  First  Horse  Show  ....  David  Gray  117 

From  "Gallops  2." 

My  Husband's  Book James  Matthew  Barrie      135 

From  "Two  of  Them." 

War Jack  London  141 

From  "The  Night-Bom." 

The  Battle  op  the  Monsters  .      .  Morgan  Robertson  147 

From  "Where  Angels  Fear  to  Tread." 

A  Dilemma S.  Weir  Mitchell  160 

From  "Little  Stories." 

The  Red-Headed  League  .      .      .      .A.  Conan  Doyle  166 

From  "Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes." 

One  Hundred  in  the  Dark  .      .     .  Owen  Johnson  192 

From  "Murder  in  Any  Degree."  /' 

A  Retrieved  Reformation   ...  0.  Henry  212 

From  "Roads  of  Destiny." 

Brother  Leo Phyllis  Bottome  221 

From  "The  Derelict  and  Other  Stories." 

A  Fight  with  Death Ian  Maclaren  238 

From  "Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush." 

The  Dan-nan-ron Fiona  Maeleod  248 

From  "The  Dominion  of  Dreams,  Under  the  Dark  Star." 

Notes  and  Comments 275 

Suggestive  Questions  for  Class  Use 296 


INTRODUCTION 


OUR  NATIONAL  READING 

Is  there  anyone  who  has  not  read  a  short  story?  Is  there 
anyone  who  has  not  stopped  at  a  news-stand  to  buy  a  short- 
story  magazine  ?  Is  there  anyone  who  has  not  drawn  a  volume 
of  short  stories  from  the  library,  or  bought  one  at  the  book- 
store? Short  stories  are  everywhere.  There  are  bed-time 
stories  and  fairy  stories  for  little  children;  athletic  stories, 
adventure  stories,  and  cheerful  good-time  stories  for  boys  and 
girls;  humorous  stories  for  those  who  like  to  laugh,  and 
serious  stories  for  those  who  like  to  think.  The  World  and 
his  Wife  still  say,  "Tell  me  a  story,"  just  as  they  did  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Our  printing  presses  have  fairly  roared 
an  answer,  and,  at  this  moment,  are  busy  printing  short 
stories.  Even  the  newspapers,  hardly  able  to  find  room  for 
news  and  for  advertisements,  often  give  space  to  re-printing 
short  stories.  Our  people  are  so  fond  of  soda  water  that 
some  one  has  laughingly  called  it  our  national  drink.  Our 
people  of  every  class,  young  and  old,  are  so  fond  of  short 
stories  that,  with  an  equal  degree  of  truth,  we  may  call  the 
short  story  our  national  reading. 

II 

THE  DEFINITION 

The  short  story  and  the  railroad  are  about  equally  old, — 
or,  rather,  equally  new,  for  both  were  perfected  in  distinctly 
recent  times.  The  railroad  is  the  modern  development  of 
older  ways  of  moving  people  and  goods  from  one  place  to  an- 
other,— of  litters,  carts,  and  wagons.     The  short  story  is  the 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

modem  development  of  older  ways  of  telling  what  actually 
had  happened,  or  might  happen,  or  what  might  be  imagined 
to  happen, — of  tales,  fables,  anecdotes,  and  character  studies. 
A  great  number  of  men  led  the  way  to  the  locomotive,  but  it 
remained  for  the  nineteenth  century,  in  the  person  of  George 
Stephenson,  to  perfect  it.  In  like  manner,  many  authors  led 
the  way  to  the  short  story  of  to-day,  but  it  remained  for  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  particularly  for  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
to  perfect  it,  and  give  it  definition. 

Before  Poe's  time  the  short  story  had  sometimes  been 
written  well,  and  sometimes  poorly.  It  had  often  been  of 
too  great  length,  wandering,  and  without  point.  Poe  wrote 
stories  that  are  different  from  many  earlier  stories  in  that  they 
are  all  comparatively  short.  Another  difference  is  that  Poe's 
stories  do  not  wander,  producing  now  one  effect,  and  now  an- 
other. Like  a  Roman  road,  every  one  goes  straight  to  the 
point  that  the  maker  had  in  mind  at  the  beginning,  and 
produces  one  single  effect.  In  the  older  stories  the  writers 
often  turned  from  the  principal  subject  to  introduce  other 
matter.  Poe  excluded  everything, — no  matter  how  inter- 
esting,— that  did  not  lead  directly  to  the  effect  he  wished  to 
produce.  The  earlier  stories  often  ended  inconclusively.  The 
reader  felt  that  more  might  be  said,  or  that  some  other  end- 
ing might  be  possible.  Poe  tried  to  write  so  that  the  story 
should  be  absolutely  complete,  and  its  ending  the  one  neces- 
sary ending,  with  no  other  ending  even  to  be  thought  of. 
With  it  all,  he  tried  to  write  so  that, — no  matter  how  im- 
probable the  story  really  might  be, — it  should,  at  least,  seem 
entirely  probable, — as  real  as  though  it  had  actually  hap- 
pened. 

In  general,  Poe's  definition  of  the  short  story  still  holds 
true.  There  are  many  kinds  of  stories  today, — just  as  there 
are  many  kinds  of  engines, — but  the  great  fundajuental  prin- 
ciples hold  true  in  both.  We  may  still  define  the  modern 
short  story  as: 

1.  A  narrative  that  is  short  enough  to  be  read  easily  at  a 
single  sitting; 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

2.  That  is  written  to  produce  a  single  impression  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader; 

3.  That  excludes  everything  that  does  not  lead  to  that 
single  impression ; 

4.  That  is  complete  and  final  in  itself; 

5.  That  has  every  indication  of  reality. 

Ill 

THE  FxVMILY   TREE  OF   THE   SHORT   STORY 

Everyone  knows  his  father  and  mothers  Very  few,  except 
those  of  noble  descent,  know  even  the  names  of  their  great- 
great  grandparents.  As  if  of  the  noblest,  even  of  royal  de- 
scent, the  short  story  knows  its  family  tree.  Its  ancestry, 
like  that  of  the  American  people,  goes  back  to  Europe ;  draws 
strength  from  many  races,  and  finally  loses  itself  some- 
where in  the  prehistoric  East, — in  'ancient  Greece,  India,  or 
Egypt. 

In  the  royal  galleries  kings  look  at  pictures  oi  their  great 
ancestors,  and  somewhat  realize  remote  the  past.  Many  of 
the  ancestors  of  the  short  story  still  live.  They  drank  of  the 
fountain  of  youth,  and  are  as  strong  and  full  of  life  as  ever. 
Such  immortal  ancestors  of  the  short  story  of  today  are  The 
Story  of  Polyphemus  (ninth  century  B.C.),  'The  Story  of 
Pandora  and  her  Box  (ninth  century,  B.C.),  The  Book  of 
Esther  (second  century,  b.  c),  The  City  Mouse  and  the  Coun- 
try Mouse  (first  century,  B.C.),  and  The  Fahles  of  jJEsop 
(third  century,  a.  d.).  There  are  still  existing  many  Egyp- 
tian short  stories,  some  of  which  are  of  the  most  remote 
antiquity,  the  Tales  of  the  Magicians  going  back  to  4000  b.  c. 

All  the  stories  just  named, — and  many  others  equally 
familiar,  drawn  from  every  ancient  land, — affected  the  short 
story  in  English. 

In  the  earliest  days  in  England,  in  the  fifth  and  in  a  few 
succeeding  centuries,  the  priests  made  collections  of  short 
stories  from  which  they  could  select  illustrative  material  for 
the  instruction  of  their  hearers.  They  drew  many  such  stories 
from  Latin,  which,  in  turn,  had  drawn  them  from  still  more 


X  INTRODUCTION 

aneient  sources.  Then,  or  a  little  later,  came  folk  stories, 
romantic  stories  of  adventure,  and  other  stories  for  mere 
amusement. 

In  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  the  Italians 
became  very  skilful  in  telling  short  stories,  or  ''novelle." 
Their  ''new"  tales  had  a  lasting  effect  on  short  story  telling 
in  English. 

Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales ,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
although  in  verse,  told  in  a  most  delightfully  realistic  way  all 
kinds  of  stories  from  all  kinds  of  sources,  particularly  from 
the  literatures  of  Italy  and  of  France.  Chaucer  told  his 
stories  so  remarkably  well,  with  such  humor  and  reality,  that 
he  is  one  of  the  great  forces  in  the  history  of  the  short  story 
in  English. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  stories  from  France,  Spain,  and 
other  lands,  also  gave  new  incentives  to  the  development  of 
the  short  story  in  English. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  Addison's  Spectator  published 
very  short  realistic  narratives  that  often  presented  closely 
drawn  character  studies.  These  are  hardly  to  be  called 
short  stories,  but  they  influenced  the  short  story  form. 

About  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  partly  be- 
cause of  German  influence,  it  became  the  fashion  to  write 
stories  of  mystery  and  horror,  such  as  many  of  those  by  Ir- 
ving, Hawthorne,  and  Poe.  Irving  softened  such  stories  by 
the  touch  of  realistic  humor;  Hawthorne  gave  them  artistic 
form  and  nobility;  Poe  developed  the  full  value  of  the  short 
story  as  a  literary  type,  and  pointed  out  the  five  principles 
named  above.  The  genius  of  these  men  led  the  way  to  the 
modern  short  story. 

Since  their  time  the  short  story  has  moved  on  in  its  de- 
velopment, including  every  kind  of  subject,  tending  to  speak 
more  and  more  realistically  of  persons  and  places,  but  not 
losing  its  romantic  nature.  Popular  short  stories  of  today 
are  closely  localized,  and  are  frequently  quick,  incisive,  and 
emphatic. 

Today  there  are  all  kinds  of  short  stories, — folk-lore  tales, 
local  color  stories,  animal  stories,  humorous  stories,  stories  of 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

society,  of  satire,  of  science,  of  character,  of  atmosphere,  and 
scores  of  other  types,  all  virile,  interesting,  and  profitable. 

However  well-dressed  the  modern  short  story  may  be  in 
form  and  style,  it  is  worth  little,  unless,  like  its  immortal  an- 
cestors, it  has  the  soul  of  goodness,  truth,  and  beauty,  and  does 
something  to  reveal  nobility  in  the  life  of  man. 

IV 

A   GOOD   STORY 

With  houses  and  stories  it  is  much  the  same.  As  any  one 
may  build  a  hut,  so  any  one  may  compose  a  short  story.  In 
both  cases  the  materials  may  be  common  and  cheap,  and  the 
construction  careless.  The  one  may  give  shelter  from  the 
storm,  and  the  other  may  hold  attention  for  a  moment. 
Neither  may  be  worth  much.  Somewhat  better  are  the  ordi- 
nary house,  and  the  ordinary  story.  Both  are  good,  and 
fairly  well  constructed,  but  the  material  is  frequently  com- 
monplace, and  the  general  characteristics  ordinar}^  To  lift 
either  a  house  or  a  story  out  of  the  ordinary  there  must  be  fine 
material,  artistic  workmanship,  close  and  tender  association 
with  life, — something  beautiful,  or  good,  or  true.  For  the 
highest  beauty  there  is  need  of  something  other  than  obedi- 
ence to  rule  in  construction.  Any  architect  can  tell  how  to 
build  a  beautiful  house,  but  there  is  a  fine  beauty  no  mere 
architect  can  give,  a  beauty  that  comes  with  years,  or  the 
close  touch  of  human  joys  and  sorrows.  It  is  the  same  with 
stories.  We  can  not  analyze  the  finer  quality,  but  we  can,  at 
least,  tell  some  of  the  characteristics  that  make  short  stories 
good. 

As  Poe  said,  the  best  short  story  is  short  enough  to  be  read 
at  a  sitting,  so  that  it  produces  a  single  effect.  It  includes 
nothing  that  does  not  lead  to  that  effect,  and  it  produces 
the  effect  as  inevitably  as  an  arrow  flies  to  its  mark.  The 
ending  is  necessarj^,  the  one  solution  to  which  everything  has 
moved  from  the  beginning.  In  some  way  the  story  is  close  to 
life,  and  is  so  realistically  told  that  the  reader  is  drawn  into 
its  magic,  and  half  believes  it  real. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

It  has  a  combination  of  plot  and  characters, — the  nature 
/  of  the  characters  making  the  action,  and  the  action  affecting 
the  persons  involved. 

Without  action  of  some  sort  there  would,  of  course,  be  no 
story,  but  the  action, — usually  built  up  of  two  opposing  forces, 
— must  be  woven  into  plot,  that  is,  into  a  combination  of 
events  that  lead  to  a  definite  result,  perhaps  not  known  at 
first  by  the  reader,  but  known  from  the  beginning  by  the 
author.  The  plot  is  somewhat  simple,  for  the  story  is  too 
short  to  allow  of  much  complexity.  The  action  and  the 
characters  are  based  on  some  experience,  imaginary  or 
otherwise,  and  are  honestly  presented.  In  the  best  short 
story  there  is  no  pronounced  artificiality  or  posing. 

There  is  always  a  certain  harmony  of  content,  so  that  plot 
and  characters  work  together  naturally,  every  detail  strictly 
in  keeping  with  the  nature  of  the  story. 

The  best  story  has  an  underlying  idea, — not  necessarily  a 
moral, — a  thought  or  theme,  very  often  concerned  with  ideals 
of  conduct,  that  can  be  expressed  in  a  sentence. 

Closely  associated  with  everything  is  an  indefinable  some- 
thing, that  rises  from  the  story  somewhat  as  the  odor  of 
sandalwood  rises  from  an  oriental  box,  a  sort  of  fragrance,  or 
charm,  a  deeply  appealing  characteristic  that  we  call  "at- 
mosphere.'' 

Some  stories  may  emphasize  one  point,  and  others  another, 
— the  plot,  the  characters,  the  setting,  the  theme,  or  the 
atmosphere.  As  they  vary  thus  they  reveal  new  lights,  colors, 
and  effects. 

Still  more  do  they  vary  in  the  charm  that  comes  from  apt 
choice  of  words,  and  originality  or  beauty  of  phrasing. 

Altogether,  the  best  short  story  is  truly  an  artistic  product. 
The  old  violins  made  in  Cremona  by  Antonius  Stradivarius 
have  such  perfect  harmony  of  material  and  form,  and  were 
made  with  such  loving  skill,  that  they  are  vibrant  with  ten- 
derly beautiful  over-tones.  So  the  best  short  story  is  per- 
fectly harmonious  in  every  part,  is  made  from  chosen  ma- 
terial, is  put  together  with  sympathetic  care,  and  is  rich 
with  the  over-tones  of  love,  and  laughter,  and  sorrow. 

/ 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

V 

WHAT   SHALL   I   DO   WITH   THIS   BOOK? 

Here  is  a  book  of  more  than  twenty  excellent  short  stories, 
not  one  of  which  was  written  with  the  slightest  thought  that 
any  one  would  ever  wish  to  study  it  as  part  of  school  work. 
Every  story  was  written  (1)  because  its  author  had  a  story 
to  tell,  (2)  because  he  had  a  definite  aim  in  telling  the  story, 
(3)  because  he  felt  that  by  certain  methods  of  form  and 
style  he  could  interest  and  delight  his  readers.  The  magician 
opens  his  box,  and  holds  the  ring  of  spectators  enthralled. 
Here  is  no  place  for  study.  One  must  simply  stand  in  the 
circle,  and  look,  and  wonder,  enjoy  to  his  utmost,  and  applaud 
the  entertainer  when  he  makes  his  final  bow.  But  the  spec- 
tator is  always  privileged  to  look,  not  only  idly  but  also  as 
sharply  as  he  pleases.  So  the  reader  is  entitled  to  notice 
in  every  case  the  three  reasons  for  writing  the  story. 

The  best  way,  then,  to  study  this  book  is  not  to  "study" 
it.  It  is  not  a  geography,  nor  a  book  of  rules,  nor  any  kind 
of  book  to  be  memorized.  It  is  a  book  to  be  read  with  an  ap- 
preciative mind  and  a  sympathetic  heart.  Read  the  stories 
one  by  one  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  printed.  Read 
with  the  expectation  of  having  a  good  time, — that  is  what 
every  author  intended  you  to  have.  But  keep  your  eyes 
open.  Make  sure  you  really  know  the  story  the  author  is 
telling.  One  way  of  testing  your  understanding  is  to  tell 
the  story  in  a  very  few  words,  either  orally  or  in  writing,  so 
that  some  friend,  who  has  not  read  it,  may  know  the  bare 
story,  and  know  it  clearly.  If  you  find  yourself  confused,  or 
if  you  lose  yourself  in  details  and  can  not  tell  the  story 
briefly,  you  have  not  found  the  story  the  author  has  to  tell. 

A  second  test  is  to  tell  in  one  sentence,  or  in  one  very 
short  paragraph,  exactly  what  purpose  the  writer  had  in 
telling  the  story.  This  will  be  more  difficult  but  it  will  need 
little  thought  if  you  really  have  understood  and  appreciated 
the  story.  Do  not  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  a  pur- 
pose must  be  a  moral.     A  man  who  makes  a  chair,  a  clown  in 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

a  circus,  an  artist,  a  violinist,  a  boy  playing  a  game, — all  have 
purposes  in  what  they  do,  but  the  purpose  is  not  primarily 
moral.  If  you  are  puzzled  in  finding  the  purpose  of  the 
story  you  should  look  the  story  over  until  its  purpose  flashes 
upon  3^ou. 

Thirdly,  you  should  see  if  you  can  put  into  four  or  five 
unconnected  sentences,  either  oral  or  written,  the  methods 
of  form  and  style  by  which  the  author  has  interested  you,  and 
pleased  you.  These  methods  will  include  means  of  awaken- 
ing interest,  means  of  presenting  the  action,  preparation  for 
the  climax,  way  of  telling  the  climax,  and  way  of  ending 
the  story.  They  will  also  include  choice  of  words,  use  of  lan- 
guage effects,  and  the  means  of  producing  atmosphere  in  the 
story. 

If  it  happens  that  there  are  words  that  are  not  familiar,  look 
them  up  in  the  dictionary.  You  can  not  hope  to  understand 
a  story  until  you  understand  its  language. 

A  good  way  to  test  your  appreciation  of  story  telling  as  an 
art, — and  to  help  you  to  appreciate  even  more  keenly, — is  to 
write  short  stories  of  your  own.  Try,  in  every  case,  to  imi- 
tate some  method  employed  in  a  particular  story  by  a  well- 
known  author.  Do  not  imitate  too  much.  Be  original. 
Be  yourself.  If  some  of  our  best  short  story  writers  had  done 
nothing  but  imitate  they  would  never  have  succeeded.  Make 
your  short  stories  different  from  those  by  anyone  else  in 
your  class.  Write  your  story  in  such  a  way  that  no  one  will 
draw  pictures,  or  look  out  of  the  window,  or  whisper  to  his 
neighbor,  when  it  comes  your  turn  to  read.  There  are  three 
ways  to  bring  that  about : 

1.  Write  about  something  that  you,  and  your  class,  know 
about,  and  like  to  hear  about. 

2.  Think  of  a  good,  emphatic,  or  surprising  climax,  and 
then  make  a  plot  that  will  lead  to  the  climax  with  ab- 
solute certainty. 

3.  Tell  your  story  in  a  way  that  will  be  different  from  the 
way  employed  by  any  of  your  classmates. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

In  general,  the  stories  in  this  book  are  to  be  read  and  en- 
joyed, worked  over,  and  talked  about,  in  a  simple  manner,  as 
one  might  discuss  stories  at  a  reading  club.  To  treat  the 
stories  in  any  other  way  would  be  to  make  displeasing  work 
out  of  what  should  be  pure  pleasure. 

In  the  back  of  the  book  is  a  small  amount  of  biographical 
and  explanatory  material,  such  as  a  friendly  teacher  might 
tell  to  his  class.  There  are  also  a  few  questions  that  will 
help  you  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  best  effects  in  every 
story.  The  notes  have  been  given  merely  for  reference,  as  if 
they  were  contained  in  a  sort  of  handy  encyclopedia.  They 
are  not  for  hard,  systematic  study. 

A  class  studying  this  book  should  forget  that  it  is  a  class 
in  school,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  reading  club,  whose  object, 
— written  in  its  constitution,  in  capital  letters, — is  pure  en- 
joyment of  all  that  is  best  in  short  stories,  and  in  short  story 
telling. 

VI 

WHERE   TO   FIND   SOME   GOOD   SHORT   STORIES 

Baldwin,  Charles  Sears . . .  American  Short  Stories 

Cody,    Sherwin The  World's  Best  Short  Stories 

Dawson,  W.  J.  and  C.  W..  .Great  English  Short  Story  Writers 
Esenwein,  Joseph  Berg... Short  Story  Masterpieces 

Firkins,  I.  T.  E Index  to  Short  Stories 

Hawthorne,  Julian Library  of  the  World 's  Best  Mys- 
tery and  Detective  Stories 

Jessup,   Alexander Little  French  Masterpieces 

Jessup,     A.     and     Canby, 

H.  S The  Book  of  the  Short  Story 

Matthews,  Brander The  Short  Story 

Patten,    William Great  Short  Stories 

Patten,    William Short  Story  Classics 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons ..  Stories  by  American  Authors 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  .Stories  by  English  Authors 
Charles  Scribner  's  Sons . .  Stories  by  Foreign  Authors 


x^/i  INTRODUCTION 

VII 

SOME  INTERESTING   SHORT   STORIES 

R.  H.  Davis:  The  Bar  Sinister;  Washington  Irving:  The 
Rose  of  the  Alhambra ;  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow ;  Rip  Van 
Winkle;  The  Three  Beautiful  Princesses;  Rudyard  Kipling: 
Garm,  A  Hostage;  The  Arabian  Nights:  Aladdin;  Ali  Baba; 
Annie  Trumbull  Slosson:  Butterneggs;  Ruth  McEnery 
Stuart :  Sonny 's  Diploma ;  Frederick  Remington :  How  Order 
No.  6  Went  Through;  Mark  Twain:  The  Jumping  Frog; 
Henry  Van  Dyke :  The  First  Christmas  Tree. 

H.  C.  Andersen:  The  Ugly  Duckling;  Grimm  Brothers:  Lit- 
tle Briar  Rose ;  Rudyard  Kipling :  Mowgli  's  Brothers ;  Toomai 
of  the  Elephants;  Her  Majesty's  Servants;  -^sop :  The  Coun- 
try Mouse  and  the  City  Mouse;  Joel  Chandler  Harris:  The 
Wonderful  Tar  Baby  Story;  How  Black  Snake  Caught  the 
Wolf;  Brother  Mud  Turtle's  Trickery;  A  French  Tar  Baby; 
George  Ade :  The  Preacher  Who  Flew  His  Kite. 

Henry  Van  Dyke:  The  Other  Wise  Man;  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne: Rapaccini's  Daughter;  David  Swan;  The  Snow 
Image;  The  Great  Stone  Face;  Lady  Eleanor's  Mantle;  The 
Minister's  Black  Veil;  The  Birth  Mark;  E.  A.  Poe:  William 
Wilson;  Rudyard  Kipling:  The  Ship  that  Found  Herself; 
Henry  James :  The  Madonna  of  the  Future ;  R.  L.  Stevenson : 
Will  o'  the  Mill ;  Joseph  Addison :  The  Vision  of  Mirza. 

Howard  Pyle:  The  Ruby  of  Kishmore;  Rudyard  Kipling: 
The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King;  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft; 
Tiger,  Tiger;  Kaa's  Hunting;  R.  H.  Davis:  Gallegher;  Van 
Bibber's  Burglar;  R.  L.  Stevenson:  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's 
Door;  Joseph  Conrad:  Youth;  E.  A.  Poe:  The  Pit  and  the 
Pendulum;  F.  R.  Stockton:  My  Terminal  Moraine;  Jesse 
Lynch  Williams:  The  Stolen  Story. 

Henry  Van  Dyke:  Messengers  at  the  Window;  M.  R.  S. 
Andrews:  A  Messenger;  Bulwer  Lytton :  The  Haunted  and 
the  Haunters;  Fitz  James  O'Brien;  The  Diamond  Lens;  What 
Was  It?;  M.  E.  Wilkins  Freeman:  Shadows  on  the  Wall; 
R.  W.  Chambers:  The  Tree  of  Heaven;  Marion  Crawford: 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

The  Upper  Berth;  H.  W.  Jacobs:  The  Monkey's  Paw;  Rud- 
yard  Kipling:  At  the  End  of  the  Passage;  The  Brushwood 
Boy ;  They ;  Prosper  Merimee :  The  Venus  of  llle. 

E.  A.  Poe:  The  Gold  Bug;  The  Purloined  Letter;  Conan 
Doyle:  The  Dancing  Men;  the  Speckled  Band;  Henry  Van 
Dyke :  The  Night  Call ;  Fitz James  0  'Brien :  The  Golden  Ingot ; 
Anton  Chekhoff:  The  Safety  Match;  R.  L.  Stevenson:  The 
Pavillion  on  the  Links;  Egerton  Castle:  The  Baron's  Quarry; 
Wilkie  Collins:  The  Dream  Woman;  Rudyard  Kipling:  The 
Sending  of  Dana  Da. 

G.  B.  McCutcheon:  The  Day  of  the  Dog;  H.  C.  Bunner:  The 
Love  Letters  of  Smith;  A  Sisterly  Scheme;  0.  Henry:  The 
Ransom  of  Red  Chief;  While  the  Auto  Waits;  Samuel  Min- 
turn  Peck:  The  Trouble  at  St.  James;  T.  B.  Aldrich:  Goliath; 
R.  M.  S.  Andrews:  A  Good  Samaritan;  The  Grandfathers  of 
Bob;  E.  P.  Butler:  Pigs  is  Pigs;  Josephine  Dodge  Daskam: 
Edgar,  the  Choir  Boy  Uncelestial ;  T.  A.  Janvier :  The  Passing 
of  Thomas;  Myra  Kelly:  A  Christmas  Present  for  a  Lady; 
Ruth  McEnery  Stuart:  The  Woman's  Exchange  of  Simpkins- 
ville. 

P.  Hopkinson  Smith :  The  Veiled  Lady  of  Stamboul ;  Stuart 
Edward  Wliite :  The  Life  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven ;  T.  B. 
Aldrich:  Pere  Antoine's  Date  Palm;  Booth  Tarkington:  Mon- 
sieur Beaucaire ;  R.  H.  Davis :  The  Princess  Aline ;  Alice 
Brown:  A  IMap  of  the  Country;  M.  R.  S.  Andrews:  The 
Bishop's  Silence;  Honore  de  Balzac:  A  Passion  in  the  Desert; 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne:  The  White  Old  Maid. 

Irvin  Cobb :  Up  Clay  Street ;  M.  E.  Wilkins  Freeman :  The 
Revolt  of  Mother ;  A  Humble  Romance ;  Prosper  Merimee : 
Mateo  Falcone;  Alphonse  Daudet:  The  Last  Class;  G.  W. 
Cable:  Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation;  Bret  Harte:  The  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp ;  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart :  The  Widder  John- 
sing;  Owen  Wister:  Specimen  Jones;  T.  A.  Janvier:  The  Sage 
Brush  Hen. 

T.  B.  Aldrich:  Marjory  Daw;  Mademoiselle  Olimpe  Za- 
briskie;  Miss  :\Iehetabel's  Son;  0.  Henry:  The  Gift  of  the 
Magi;  The  Cop  and  the  Anthem;  The  Whirligig  of  Life; 
Guy  de  Maupassant:  The  Diamond  Necklace;  F.  R.  Stock- 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

ton:  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger;  John  Fox,  Jr.:  The  Purple 
Ehododendron ;  R.  W.  Chambers :  A  Young  Man  in  a  Hurry ; 
E.  A.  Poe:  Three  Sundays  in  a  Week;  Ambrose  Bierce:  The 
Man  and  the  Snake;  FitzJames  O'Brien:  The  Bohemian; 
Frank  Norris :  A  Deal  in  Wheat. 

Mark  Twain:  A  Dog's  Tale;  W.  D.  Howell's:  Editha;  E. 
T.  Seton:  The  Biography  of  a  Grizzly;  Brander  Matthews: 
The  Story  of  a  Story;  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson:  The  Father; 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne:  The  Ambitious  Guest;  Jacob  A.  Riis: 
The  Burgomaster's  Christmas;  Charles  Dickens:  A  Christ- 
mas Carol;  Henry  Van  Dyke:  The  Mansion;  E.  E.  Hale:  The 
Man  Without  a  Country. 

M.  R.  S.  Andrews:  The  Perfect  Tribute;  Frangois  Coppee: 
The  Substitute;  J.  B.  Connolly:  Sonny  Boy's  People;  S.  0. 
Jewett:  The  Queen's  Twin;  James  Lane  Allen:  King  Solomon 
of  Kentucky;  Bret  Harte:  Tennessee's  Partner;  Jack  London: 
The  God  of  His  Fathers ;  John  Galsworthy :  Quality. 

Thomas  Nelson  Page :  Marse  Chan ;  Meh  Lady ;  R.  L.  Steven- 
son: The  Merry  Men;  E.  A.  Poe:  The  Masque  of  the  Red 
Death;  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher;  Irvin  Cobb:  White 
and  Black;  F.  J.  Stimson:  Mrs.  Knollys;  John  Fox,  Jr.: 
Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome;  H.  G.  Dwight:  In  the  Pasha's 
Garden;  Honore  de  Balzac:  An  Episode  Under  the  Terror; 
Jack  London:  Thanksgiving  on  Slav  Creek;  Charles  Lamb: 
Dream  Children;  H.  C.  Brunner:  Our  Aromatic  Uncle. 

Bret  Harte:  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat;  R.  L.  Stevenson: 
Markheim;  Guy  de  Maupassant:  A  Piece  of  String;  A 
Coward;  E.  A.  Poe:  The  Cask  of  Amontillado;  Edith  Whar- 
ton :  The  Bolted  Door ;  A  Journey ;  Henry  Van  Dyke :  A  Lover 
of  Music;  S.  R.  Crockett:  Elsie's  Dance  for  Her  Life;  Jack 
London :  The  White  Silence. 


INTRODUCTION 


VIII 

WHAT   TO   READ   ABOUT   THE  SHORT   STORY 

Albright,  Evelyn  May The  Short  Story,  its  Principles  and 

Structure 

Barrett,  Charles  R Short  Story  Writing 

Buck,  Gertrude,  and  Mor- 
ris, Elizabeth  Wood- 
bridge  A  Course  in  Narrative  Writing 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel The  Short  Story  in  English 

Cody,  Sherwin Story  Writing  and  Journalism 

Dye,  Charity The  Story  Teller's  Art 

Esenwein,  Joseph  Berg.  ..Writing  the  Short  Story 

Hamilton,   Clayton Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction 

Matthews,    Brander The  Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story 

Perry,  Bliss A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction 

Pitkin,  Walter  B Short   Story  Writing 

Wells,  Carolyn The    Technique    of    the    Mysterv 

Story 


MODERN  SHORT  STORIES 


',  ■>  » 


THE 
MODERN  SHORT  STORY 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA  ^ 
By  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


a 


I  GOT  one  tale  on  my  minV*  said  Uncle  Remus  to  the  ; 

little  boy  one  night.     *'I  got  one  tale  on  my  min'  dat  I  ain't  ; 

ne  'er  tell  you ;  I  dunner  how  come ;  I  speck  it  des  kaze  I  git  i 

mixt  up  in  my  idees.     Deze  is  busy  times,  mon,  en  de  mo'  you  '\ 

does  de  mo'  you  hatter  do,  en  w'en  dat  de  case,  it  ain't  ter  be  i 

'spected  dat  one  ole  broke-down  nigger  kin  'member   'bout  ! 
eve  'ything. ' ' 

''What  is  the  story,  Uncle  Remus?"  the  little  boy  asked. 

''Well,  honey,"  said  the  old  man,  wiping  his  spectacles,  j 

"hit  sorter  run  dis  away:     One  time  dey  wuz  a  man  w'at  ^ 

had  a  mighty  likely  daughter."  i 

"Was  he  a  white  man  or  a  black  man?"  the  little  boy  I 

asked.  ' 

"I    'clar'  ter  gracious,  honey!"   exclaimed  the  old  man, 

"you  er  pushin'  me  mos'  too  close.     Fer  all  I  kin  tell  you,  de  i 

man  mout  er  bin  ez  w  'ite  ez  de  driven  snow,  er  he  mout  er  bin  j 

de  blackes'  Affi'kin  er  de  whole  kit  en  bilin'.     I  'm  des  tellin'  ' 
you  de  tale,  en  you  kin  take  en  take  de  man  en  whitewash  'im, 
or  you  kin  black  'im  up  des  ez  you  please.     Dat  's  de  way  I 

looks  at  it.  I 

1  It  may  be  of  interest  to  those  who  approach  Folk-Lore  stories  from 
the  scientific  side,  to  know  that  this  story  was  told  to  one  of  my  little 
boys  three  years  ago  by  a  negro  named  John  Holder.  I  have  since 
found  a  variant  (or  perhaps  the  original)   in  Tlieal's  "Kaffir  Folk-Lore." 

Joel  Chandler  Harris,  1889,  ; 

3  ! 


4  TEh]  AI'VENTLFRES  of  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA 

*'Well,  one  time  dey  wuz  a  man,  en  dish  yer  man  he  had 
a  mighty  likely  daughter.  She  wuz  so  purty  dat  she  had 
mo'  beaus  dan  w'at  you  got  fingers  en  toes.  But  de  gal  daddy, 
he  got  his  spishuns  'bout  all  un  um,  en  he  won 't  let  um  come 
'roun'  de  house.  But  dey  kep'  on  pesterin'  'im  so,  dat  bimeby 
he  give  word  out  dat  de  man  w'at  kin  clear  up  six  acres  er 
Ian'  en  roll  up  de  logs,  en  pile  up  de  bresh  in  one  day,  dat  man 
kin  marry  his  daughter. 

"In  co'se,  dis  look  like  it  unpossible,  en  all  de  beaus  drap 
off  'ceppin'  one,  en  he  wuz  a  great  big  strappin'  chap  w'at 
look  like  he  kin  knock  a  steer  down.  Dis  chap  he  wuz  name 
Simon,  en  de  gal,  she  wuz  name  Susanna.  Simon,  he  love 
Susanna,  en  Susanna,  she  love  Simon,  en  dar  it  went. 

"Well,  sir,  Simon,  he  went  ter  de  gal  daddy,  he  did,  en  he 
say  dat  ef  anybody  kin  clear  up  dat  Ian',  he  de  one  kin  do  it, 
least 'ways  he  say  he  gwine  try  mighty  hard.  De  ole  man, 
he  grin  en  rub  his  ban's  terge'er,  he  did,  en  tole  Simon  ter 
start  in  in  de  mornin '.  Susanna,  she  makes  out  she  wuz  fixin ' 
sumpin  in  de  cubberd,  but  she  tuck  'n  kiss  'er  han'  at  Simon, 
en  nod  'er  head.  Dis  all  Simon  want,  en  he  went  out  er  dar 
des  ez  happy  ez  a  jay-bird  atter  he  done  robbed  a  sparrer-nes'. 

'  *  Now,  den, ' '  Uncle  Remus  continued,  settling  himself  more 
comfortably  in  his  chair,  "dish  yer  man  wuz  a  witch." 

"Why,  I  thought  a  witch  was  a  woman,"  said  the  little 
boy. 

The  old  man  frowned  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  remarked  with  some  emphasis,  "ef  you  er 
gwine  ter  tu'n  de  man  into  a  'oman,  den  dey  won't  be  no  tale, 
kaze  dey  's  bleege  ter  be  a  man  right  dar  whar  I  put  dis  un. 
Hit  's  des  like  I  tole  you  'bout  de  color  er  de  man.  Black  'im 
er  whitewash  'im  des  ez  you  please,  en  ef  you  want  ter  put  a 
frock  on  'im  ter  boot,  hit  ain  't  none  er  my  business ;  but  I  'm 
gwine  ter  'low  he  wuz  a  man  ef  it  's  de  las'  ac'." 

The  little  boy  remained  silent,  and  Uncle  Remus  went  on : 

"Now,  den,  dish  yer  man  was  a  witch.  He  could  cunjer 
folks,  mo'  'speshually  dem  folks  w'at  ain't  got  no  rabbit  foot. 
He  bin  at  his  cunjerments  so  long,  dat  Susanna  done  learn 
mos'  all  his  tricks.     So  de  nex'  mornin'  w'en  Simon  come  by 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  5 

de  house  fer  ter  borry  de  ax,  Susanna  she  run  en  got  it  fer 
'im.  She  got  it,  she  did,  en  den  she  sprinkles  some  black  san ' 
on  it,  en  say,  'Ax,  cut;  cut,  ax.'  Den  she  rub  'er  ha'r  'cross 
it,  en  give  it  ter  Simon.  He  tuck  de  ax,  he  did,  en  den 
Susanna  say: 

"  '  Go  down  by  de  branch,  git  sev  'n  w  'ite  pebbles,  put  um  in 
dis  little  cloth  bag,  en  whenever  you  want  the  ax  ter  cut, 
shake  um  up.' 

' '  Simon,  he  went  off  in  de  woods,  en  started  in  ter  clearin ' 
up  de  six  acres.  Well,  sir,  dem  pebbles  en  dat  ax,  dey  done 
de  work — dey  did  dat.  Simon  could  'a'  bin  done  by  de  time 
de  dinner-horn  blowed,  but  he  hung  back  kaze  he  ain't  want 
de  man  fer  ter  know  dat  he  doin'  it  by  cunjerments. 

"Wen  he  shuck  de  pebbles  de  ax  'ud  cut,  en  de  trees  'ud 
fall,  en  de  lim's  'ud  drap  off,  en  de  logs  'ud  roll  up  terge'er, 
en  de  bresh  'ud  pile  itself  up.  Hit  went  on  dis  away  twel 
by  de  time  it  wuz  two  hours  b'  sun,  de  whole  six  acres  wuz 
done  cleaned  up. 

**  'Bout  dat  time  de  man  come  'roun',  he  did,  fer  ter  see 
how  de  work  gittin'  on,  en,  mon!  he  wuz  'stonish'.  He  ain't 
know  w'at  ter  do  er  say.  He  ain't  want  ter  give  up  his  daugh- 
ter, en  yit  he  ain't  know  how  ter  git  out  'n  it.  He  walk  'roun' 
en  'roun',  en  study,  en  study,  en  study  how  he  gwine  rue  de 
bargain.     At  las'  he  walk  up  ter  Simon,  he  did,  en  he  say: 

' '  '  Look  like  you  sort  er  forehanded  wid  your  work. ' 

"Simon,  he  'low:  'Yasser,  w'en  I  starts  in  on  a  job  I  'm 
mighty  restless  twel  I  gits  it  done.  Some  er  dis  timber  is 
rough  en  tough,  but  I  bin  had  wuss  jobs  dan  dis  in  my  time.' 

' '  De  man  say  ter  hisse  'f :  '  W  'at  kind  er  folks  is  dis  chap  ? ' 
Den  he  say  out  loud:  'Well,  sence  you  er  so  spry,  dey  's  two 
mo'  acres  'cross  de  branch  dar.  Ef  you  '11  clear  dem  up  'fo' 
supper  you  kin  come  up  ter  de  house  en  git  de  gal. ' 

"Simon  sorter  scratch  his  head,  kaze  he  dunner  whedder 
de  pebbles  gwine  ter  hoi'  out,  yit  he  put  on  a  bol'  front  en  he 
tell  de  man  dat  he  '11  go  'cross  dar  en  clean  up  de  two  acres 
soon  ez  he  res'  a  little. 

"De  man  he  went  off  home,  en  soon  's  he  git  out  er  sight, 
Simon  went  'cross  de  branch  en  shook  de  pebbles  at  de  two 


ii   ( 


6      THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA 

acres  er  woods,  en  't  want  no  time  skacely  'f  o '  de  trees  wuz  all 
cut  down  en  pile  up. 

De  man,  he  went  home,  he  did,  en  call  up  Susanna,  en  say : 
Daughter,  dat  man  look  like  he  gwine  git  you,  sho'.' 
**  Susanna,  she  hang  'er  head,  en  look  like  she  fretted,  en 
den  she  say  she  don 't  keer  nuthin '  f  er  Simon,  nohow. ' ' 

< '  Why,  I  thought  she  wanted  to  marry  him, ' '  said  the  little 

boy. 

''Well,  honey,  w'en  you  git  growed  up,  en  git  whiskers  on 
yo'  chin,  en  den  atter  de  whiskers  git  gray  like  mine,  you  '11 
fin'  out  sump'n  'n'er  'bout  de  wimmin  folks.  Dey  ain't  ne'er 
say  'zackly  w'at  dey  mean,  none  er  um,  mo'  'speshually  w'en 
dey  er  gwine  on  'bout  gittin'  married. 

''Now,  dar  wuz  dat  gal  Susanna  what  I  'm  a-tellin'  you 
'bout.  She  mighty  nigh  'stracted  'bout  Simon,  en  yit  she 
make  'er  daddy  b'lieve  dat  she  'spize  'im.  I  ain't  blamin' 
Susanna,"  Uncle  Remus  went  on  with  a  judicial  air,  "kase  she 
know  dat  'er  daddy  wuz  a  witch  en  a  mighty  mean  one  in  de 
bargain. 

"Well,  atter  Susanna  done  make  'er  daddy  b'lieve  dat  she 
ain't  keerin'  nothin'  't  all  'bout  Simon,  he  'gun  ter  set  his 
traps  en  fix  his  tricks.  He  up  'n  tell  Susanna  dat  atter  'er  en 
Simon  git  married  dey  mus'  go  upsta'rs  in  de  front  room,  en 
den  he  tell  'er  dat  she  mus'  make  Simon  go  ter  bed  fus'.  Den 
de^^man  went  upsta'rs  en  tuck  'n  tuck  all  de  slats  out'n  de  bed- 
stid  ceppin  one  at  de  head  en  one  at  de  foot.  Atter  dat  he 
tuck  'n  put  some  foot-valances  'roun'  de  bottom  er  de  bed — 
des  like  dem  w'at  you  bin  see  on  yo'  gran 'ma  bed.  Den  he 
tuck  'n  sawed  out  de  floor  und'  de  bed,  en  dar  wuz  de  trap  all 
ready. 

"Well,  sir,  Simon  come  up  ter  de  house,  en  de  man  make  like 
he  mighty  glad  fer  ter  see  'im,  but  Susanna,  she  look  like  she 
mighty  shy.  No  matter  'bout  dat ;  atter  supper  Simon  en 
Susanna  got  married.  Hit  ain't  in  de  tale  wedder  dey  sont 
fer  a  preacher  er  wedder  dey  wuz  a  squire  browsin'  'roun'  in 
de  neighborhoods,  but  dey  had  cake  wid  reezins  in  it,  en  some 
er  dish  yer  silly-bug  w'at  got  mo'  foam  in  it  dan  dey  is  dram, 
en  dey  had  a  mighty  happy  time. 


1  3 

5    •>  1  15  1 


1  •>      ,   ' 


D  J  ■>  5      J  1  1         1  1  1  ,  ,  , 


Simon  shakes  the  pebbles 


f        f         c       t 


f  (.        a      r  c  c     c 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  7 

''Wen  bedtime  come,  Simon  en  Susanna  went  upsta'rs, 
en  w'en  dey  got  in  de  room,  Susanna  kotch  'im  by  de  ban',  en 
belt  up  ber  finger.  Den  sbe  wbisper  en  tell  'im  dat  ef  dey 
don 't  run  away  f um  dar  dey  bof e  gwine  ter  be  kilt.  Simon  ax 
'er  how  come,  en  sbe  say  dat  'er  daddy  want  ter  kill  'im  kase 
be  secb  a  nice  man.  Dis  make  Simon  grin ;  yit  be  wuz  sorter 
restless  'bout  gittin'  'way  fum  dar.  But  Susanna,  sbe  say 
wait.     Sbe  say: 

"■  *Pick  up  yo'  bat  en  button  up  yo'  coat.  Now,  den,  take 
dat  stick  er  wood  dar  en  bol '  it  'bove  yo '  bead. ' 

''Wiles  be  stan'in'  dar,  Susanna  got  a  ben  Qgg  out  'n  a 
basket,  den  sbe  got  a  meal-bag,  en  a  skillet.     Sbe  'low : 

"  'Now,  den,  drap  de  wood  on  de  bed.' 

*' Simon  done  des  like  sbe  say,  en  time  de  wood  struck  de 
bed  de  tick  en  de  mattruss  went  a-tumblin '  tboo  de  floor.  Den 
Susanna  tuck  Simon  by  de  ban '  en  dey  run  out  de  back  way  ez 
hard  ez  dey  kin  go. 

"De  man,  be  wuz  down  dar  waitin'  fer  de  bed  ter  drap. 
He  bad  a  big  long  knife  in  be  ban',  en  time  de  bed  drapped, 
he  lit  on  it,  be  did,  en  stobbed  it  scan  'lous.  He  des  natcbuUy 
ripped  de  tick  up,  en  w'en  be  look,  bless  gracious,  dey  ain't 
no  Simon  dar.  I  lay  dat  man  wuz  mad  den.  He  snorted 
'roun'  dar  twel  blue  smoke  come  out'n  bis  nose,  en  his  eye 
look  red  like  varmint  eye  in  de  dark.  Den  be  run  upsta'rs 
en  dey  ain't  no  Simon  dar,  en  nudder  wuz  dey  any  Susanna. 

"Gentermens!  den  be  git  madder.  He  rush  out,  be  did, 
en  look  'roun',  en  'way  off  yander  be  see  Simon  en  Susanna 
des  a-runnin',  en  a-boldin'  one  nudder 's  ban'." 

"Why,  Uncle  Remus,"  said  the  little  boy,  "I  thought 
you  said  it  was  night?" 

"Dat  w'at  I  said,  honey,  en  I  '11  stan'  by  it.  Yit,  bow 
many  times  dis  blessed  night  is  I  got  ter  tell  you  dat  de  man 
wuz  a  witch?     En  bein'  a  witch,  co'se  be  kin  see  in  de  dark. 

"Well,  dish  yer  witch-man,  he  look  off  en  he  see  Simon 
en  Susanna  runnin'  ez  hard  ez  dey  kin.  He  put  out  atter 
um,  be  did,  wid  his  knife  in  his  ban',  an'  be  kep'  on  a  gainin' 
on  um.  Bimeby,  he  got  so  close  dat  Susanna  say  ter  Simon : 
Fling  down  yo'  coat«' 


Hi 


8       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA 


ii\ 


Time  de  coat  tech  de  groun*,  a  big  thick  woods  sprung 
up  whar  it  fell.  But  de  man,  he  cut  his  way  thoo  it  wid  de 
knife,  en  kep'  on  a-pursuin'  atter  um. 

"Bimeby,  he  got  so  close  dat  Susanna  drap  de  egg  on  de 
groun',  en  time  it  fell  a  big  fog  riz  up  fum  de  groun',  en  a 
little  mo'  en  de  man  would  a  got  los'.  But  atter  so  long  a 
time  fog  got  blowed  away  by  de  win',  en  de  man  kep'  on 
a-pursuin'  atter  um. 

"Bimeby,  he  got  so  close  dat  Susanna  drap  de  meal-sack, 
en  a  great  big  pon'  er  water  kivered  de  groun'  whar  it  fell. 
De  man  wuz  in  sech  a  big  hurry  dat  he  tried  ter  drink  it  dry, 
but  he  ain't  kin  do  dis,  so  he  sot  on  de  bank  en  blow'd  on 
de  water  wid  he  hot  breff,  en  atter  so  long  a  time  de  water 
made  hits  disappearance,  en  den  he  kep'  on  atter  um. 

''Simon  en  Susanna  wuz  des  a-runnin',  but  run  ez  dey 
would,  de  man  kep'  a-gainin'  on  um,  en  he  got  so  close  dat 
Susanna  drapped  de  skillet.     Den  a  big  bank  er  darkness  fell 
down,  en  de  man  ain't  know  which  away  ter  go.     But  atter 
so  long  a  time  de  darkness  lif  up,  en  de  man  kep'  on  a-pur- 
suin' atter  um.     Mon,  he  made  up  fer  los'  time,  en  he  got 
so  close  dat  Susanna  say  ter  Simon : 
Drap  a  pebble.' 
Time  Simon  do  dis  a  high  hill  riz  up,  but  de  man  clum 
it  en  kep '  on  atter  um.     Den  Susanna  say  ter  Simon : 
Drap  nudder  pebble.' 
Time  Simon  drap  de  pebble,  a  high  mountain  growed 
up,  but  de  man  crawled  up  it  en  kep'  on  atter  um.     Den 
Susanna  say: 

Drap  de  bigges'  pebble.' 
No  sooner  is  he  drap  it  dan  a  big  rock  wall  riz  up,  en  hit 
wuz  so  high  dat  de  witch -man  can't  git  over.     He  run  up  en 
down,  but  he  can 't  find  no  end,  en  den,  atter  so  long  a  time,  he 
turn  'roun'  en  go  home. 

*'0n  de  yuther  side  er  dis  high  wall,  Susanna  tuck  Simon 
by  de  han',  en  say: 

*'  'Now  we  kin  res'.' 

*'En  I  reckon,"  said  the  old  man  slyly,  "dat  we  all  better 


6i  I 

er 


res'." 


THE  CROW-CHILD 

By  MARY  MAPES  DODGE 

Midway  between  a  certain  blue  lake  and  a  deep  forest 
there  once  stood  a  cottage,  called  by  its  owner  "The  Rook- 
ery." 

The  forest  shut  out  the  sunlight  and  scowled  upon  the 
ground,  breaking  with  shadows  every  ray  that  fell,  until  only 
a  few  little  pieces  lay  scattered  about.  But  the  broad  lake 
invited  all  the  rays  to  come  and  rest  upon  her,  so  that  some- 
times she  shone  from  shore  to  shore,  and  the  sun  winked  and 
blinked  above  her,  as  though  dazzled  by  his  own  reflection. 
The  cottage,  which  was  very  small,  had  sunny  windows  and 
dark  windows.  Only  from  the  roof  could  you  see  the  moun- 
tains beyond,  where  the  light  crept  up  in  the  morning  and 
down  in  the  evening,  turning  all  the  brooks  into  living  silver 
as  it  passed. 

But  something  brighter  than  sunshine  used  often  to  look 
from  the  cottage  into  the  forest,  and  something  even  more 
gloomy  than  shadows  often  glowered  from  its  windows  upon 
the  sunny  lake.  One  was  the  face  of  little  Ruky  Lynn ;  and 
the  other  was  his  sister's  when  she  felt  angry  or  ill-tem- 
pered. 

They  were  orphans,  Cora  and  Ruky,  living  alone  in  the 
cottage  with  an  old  uncle.  Cora — or  "Cor,"  as  Ruky  called 
her — was  nearly  sixteen  years  old,  but  her  brother  had  seen 
the  forest  turn  yellow  only  four  times.  She  was,  therefore, 
almost  mother  and  sister  in  one.  The  little  fellow  was  her 
companion  night  and  day.  Together  they  ate  and  slept,  and 
— when  Cora  was  not  at  work  in  the  cottage — together  they 
rambled  in  the  wood,  or  floated  in  their  little  skiff  upon  the 
lake. 

Ruky  had  bright,  dark  eyes,  and  the  glossy  blackness  of 

9 


10  THE  CROW-CHILD 

his  hair  made  his  cheeks  look  even  rosier  than  they  were. 
He  had  funny  ways  for  a  boy,  Cora  thought.  The  quick, 
bird-like  jerks  of  his  raven-black  head,  his  stately  baby  gait, 
and  his  habit  of  pecking  at  his  food,  as  she  called  it,  often  made 
his  sister  laugh.  Young  as  he  was,  the  little  fellow  had 
learned  to  mount  to  the  top  of  a  low-branching  tree  near  the 
cottage,  though  he  could  not  always  get  down  alone.  Some- 
times when,  perched  in  the  thick  foliage,  he  would  scream, 
'*Cor!  Cor!  Come,  help  me  down!"  his  sister  would  an- 
swer, as  she  ran  out  laughing,  ''Yes,  little  Crow!  I  'm  com- 
ing." 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  reminded  her  of  a  crow  that 
Cora  called  him  her  little  bird.  This  was  when  she  was 
good-natured  and  willing  to  let  him  see  how  much  she  loved 
him.  But  in  her  cloudy  moments,  as  the  uncle  called  them, 
Cora  was  another  girl.  Everything  seemed  ugly  to  her,  or 
out  of  tune.  Even  Ruky  was  a  trial;  and,  instead  of  giving 
him  a  kind  word,  she  would  scold  and  grumble  until  he 
would  steal  from  the  cottage  door,  and,  jumping  lightly  from 
the  door-step,  seek  the  shelter  of  his  tree.  Once  safely  perched 
among  its  branches  he  knew  she  would  finish  her  work,  for- 
get her  ill-humor,  and  be  quite  ready,  when  he  cried  "Cor! 
Cor!"  to  come  from  the  cottage  with  a  cheery,  "Yes,  little 
Crow !     I  'm  coming !     I  'm  coming ! ' ' 

No  one  could  help  loving  Ruky,  with  his  quick,  affection- 
ate ways;  and  it  seemed  that  Ruky,  in  turn,  could  not  help 
loving  every  person  and  thing  around  him.  He  loved  his 
silent  old  uncle,  the  bright  lake,  the  cool  forest,  and  even 
his  little  china  cup  with  red  berries  painted  upon  it.  But 
more  than  all,  Ruky  loved  his  golden-haired  sister,  and  the 
great  dog,  who  would  plunge  into  the  lake  at  the  mere  point- 
ing of  his  chubby  little  finger.  In  fact,  that  finger  and  the 
commanding  baby  voice  were  "law"  to  Nep  at  any  time. 

Nep  and  Ruky  often  talked  together,  and  though  one 
used  barks  and  the  other  words,  there  was  a  perfect  under- 
standing between  them.  Woe  to  the  straggler  that  dared 
to  rouse  Nep 's  wrath,  and  woe  to  the  bird  or  rabbit  that  ven- 
tured too  near ! — those  great  teeth  snapped   at  their  prey 


MARY  MAPES  DODGE  11 

without  even  the  warning  of  a  growl.  But  Ruky  could 
safely  pull  Nep's  ears  or  his  tail,  or  climb  his  great  shaggy 
back,  or  even  snatch  away  the  untasted  bone.  Still,  as  I 
said  before,  every  one  loved  the  child;  so,  of  course,  Nep 
was  no  exception. 

One  day  Ruky's  "Cor!  Cor!"  had  sounded  oftener  than 
usual.  His  rosy  face  had  bent  saucily  to  kiss  Cora's  up- 
turned forehead,  as  she  raised  her  arms  to  lift  him  from  the 
tree;  but  the  sparkle  in  his  dark  eyes  had  seemed  to  kindle 
so  much  mischief  in  him  that  his  sister's  patience  became 
fairly  exhausted. 

"Has  Cor  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  upon  youf  she  cried, 
"and  nothing  to  listen  to  but  your  noise  and  your  racket? 
You  shall  go  to  bed  early  to-day,  and  then  I  shall  have 
some  peace." 

"No,  no,  Cor.  Please  let  Rukj^  wait  till  the  stars  come. 
Ruky  wants  to  see  the  stars." 

"Hush!  Ruky  is  bad.  He  shall  have  a  whipping  when 
Uncle  comes  back  from  town." 

Nep  growled. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Ruky,  jerking  his  head  saucily  from 
side  to  side;  "Nep  says  'No!'  " 

Nep  was  shut  out  of  the  cottage  for  his  pains,  and  poor 
Ruky  was  undressed,  with  many  a  hasty  jerk  and  pull. 

"You  hurt.  Cor!"  he  said,  plaintively.  "I  'm  going  to 
take  off  my  shoes  my  own  self. ' ' 

"No,  you  're  not,"  cried  Cora,  almost  shaking  him;  and 
when  he  cried  she  called  him  naughty,  and  said  if  he  did 
not  stop  he  should  have  no  supper.  This  made  him  cry  all 
the  more,  and  Cora,  feeling  in  her  angry  mood  that  he 
deserved  severe  punishment,  threw  away  his  supper  and 
put  him  to  bed.  Then  all  that  could  be  heard  were  Ruky's 
low  sobs  and  the  snappish  clicks  of  Cora's  needles,  as  she 
sat  knitting,  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  could  not  sleep,  for  his  eyelids  were  scalded  with  tears, 
and  his  plaintive  "Cor!  Cor!"  had  reached  his  sister's  ears  in 
vain.  She  never  once  looked  up  from  those  gleaming  knitting- 
needles,  nor  even  gave  him  his  good-night  kiss. 


12  THE  CROW-CHILD 

It  grew  late.  The  uncle  did  not  return.  At  last  Cora, 
sulky  and  weary,  locked  the  cottage  door,  blew  out  her 
candle,  and  lay  down  beside  her  brother. 

The  poor  little  fellow  tried  to  win  a  forgiving  word,  but 
she  was  too  ill-natured  to  grant  it.  In  vain  he  whispered, 
''Cor,  Cor!"  He  even  touched  her  hand  over  and  over 
again  with  his  lips,  hoping  she  would  turn  toward  him,  and, 
with  a  loving  kiss,  murmur,  as  usual,  ''Good  night,  little 
bird. ' ' 

Instead  of  this,  she  jerked  her  arm  angrily  away,  saying: 

' '  Oh,  stop  your  pecking  and  go  to  sleep !  I  wish  you 
were  a  crow  in  earnest,  and  then  I  'd  have  some  peace." 

After  this,  Ruky  was  silent.  His  heart  drooped  within 
him  as  he  wondered  what  this  "peace"  was  that  his  sister 
wished  for  so  often,  and  why  he  must  go  away  before  it 
could  come  to  her. 

Soon,  Cora,  who  had  rejoiced  in  the  sudden  calm,  heard 
a  strange  fluttering.  In  an  instant  she  saw  by  the  starlight 
a  dark  object  circle  once  or  twice  in  the  air  above  her,  then 
dart  suddenly  through  the  open  window. 

Astonished  that  Ruky  had  not  shouted  with  delight  at  the 
strange  visitor,  or  else  clung  to  her  neck  in  fear,  she  turned 
to  see  if  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

No  wonder  that  she  started  up,  horror-stricken, — Ruky 
was  not  there ! 

His  empty  place  was  still  warm;  perhaps  he  had  slid 
softly  from  the  bed.  With  trembling  haste  she  lighted  the 
candle,  and  peered  into  every  corner.  The  boy  was  not  to 
be  found ! 

Then  those  fearful  words  rang  in  her  ears: 

"7  wish  you  were  a  crow  in  earnest!^' 

Cora  rushed  to  the  door,  and,  with  straining  gaze,  looked 
out  into  the  still  night. 

"Ruky!     Ruky!"   she   screamed. 

There  was  a  slight  stir  in  the  low-growing  tree. 

"Ruky,  darling,  come  back!" 

"Caw,  caw!"  answered  a  harsh  voice  from  the  tree.  Some- 
thing black  seemed  to  spin  out  of  it,  and  then,  in  great  sweep- 


MARY  MAPES  DODGE  13 

ing  circles,  sailed  upward,  until  finally  it  settled  upon  one 
of  the  loftiest  trees  in  the  forest. 

*'Caw,  caw!"  it  screamed,  fiercely. 

The  girl  shuddered,  but,  with  outstretched  arms,  cried  out: 

*'0h,  Ruky,  if  it  is  yoUy  come  back  to  poor  Cor.^" 

' '  Caw,  caw ! ' '  mocked  hundreds  of  voices,  as  a  shadow  like 
a  thunder-cloud  rose  in  the  air.  It  was  an  immense  flock 
of  crows.  She  could  distinguish  them  plainly  in  the  star- 
light, circling  higher  and  higher,  then  lower  and  lower,  un- 
til, with  their  harsh  ''Caw,  caw!"  they  sailed  far  off  into 
the  night. 

' '  Oh,  Ruky,  answer  me  ! "  she  cried. 

Nep  growled,  the  forest  trees  whispered  softly  together, 
and  the  lake,  twinkling  with  stars,  sang  a  lullaby  as  it  lifted 
its  weary  little  waves  upon  the  shore:  there  was  no  other 
sound. 

It  seemed  that  daylight  never  would  come;  but  at  last  the 
trees  turned  slowly  from  black  to  green,  and  the  lake  put  out 
its  stars,  one  by  one,  and  waited  for  the  new  day. 

Cora,  who  had  been  wandering  restlessly  in  every  direc- 
tion, now  went  weeping  into  the  cottage.  "Poor  boy!"  she 
sobbed;  "he  had  no  supper."  Then  she  scattered  bread- 
crumbs near  the  doorway,  hoping  that  Ruky  would  come  for 
them;  but  only  a  few  timid  little  songsters  hovered  about, 
and,  while  Cora  wept,  picked  up  the  food  daintily,  as  though 
it  burned  their  bills.  When  she  reached  forth  her  hand, 
though  there  were  no  crows  among  them,  and  called  ' '  Ruky ! 
Ruky!"  they  scattered  and  flew  away  in  an  instant. 

Next  she  went  to  the  steep-roofed  barn,  and,  bringing  out 
an  apronful  of  grain,  scattered  it  all  around  his  favorite  tree. 
Before  long,  to  her  great  joy,  a  flock  of  crows  came  by.  They 
spied  the  grain,  and  soon  were  busily  picking  it  up  with 
their  short,  feathered  bills.  One  even  came  near  the  mound 
where  she  sat.  Unable  to  restrain  herself  longer,  she  fell  upon 
her  knees  with  an  imploring  cry: 

"Oh,  Ruky!  is  this  you?" 

Instantly  the  entire  flock  set  up  an  angry  "caw,"  and, 
surrounding  the  crow,  who  was  hopping  closer  and  closer  to 


14  THE  CROW-CHILD 

Cora,  hurried  him  off,  until  they  all  looked  like  mere  specks 
against  the  summer  sky. 

Every  day,  rain  or  shine,  she  scattered  the  grain,  trembling 
with  dread  lest  Nep  should  leap  among  the  hungry  crows, 
and  perhaps  kill  her  'kittle  bird"  first.  But  Nep  knew 
better;  he  never  stirred  when  the  noisy  crowd  settled  around 
the  cottage,  excepting  once,  when  one  of  them  pounced  upon 
his  back.  Then  he  started  up,  wagging  his  tail,  and  barking 
with  uproarious  delight.  The  crow  flew  off  in  a  flutter,  and 
did  not  venture  near  him  again. 

Poor  Cora  felt  sure  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  Ruky. 
Oh,  if  she  only  could  have  caught  him  then!  Perhaps  with 
kisses  and  prayers  she  might  have  won  him  back  to  Ruky's 
shape ;  but  now  the  chance  was  lost. 

There  was  no  one  to  help  her ;  for  the  nearest  neighbor  dwelt 
miles  away,  and  her  uncle  had  not  yet  returned. 

After  awhile  she  remembered  the  little  cup,  and,  filling 
it  with  grain,  stood  it  upon  a  grassy  mound.  When  the 
crows  came,  they  fought  and  struggled  for  its  contents  with 
many  an  angry  cry.  One  of  them  made  no  effort  to  seize  the 
grain.  He  was  content  to  peck  at  the  berries  painted  upon 
its  sides,  as  he  hopped  joyfully  around  it  again  and  again. 
Nep  lay  very  quiet.  Only  the  tip  of  his  tail  twitched  with 
an  eager,  wistful  motion.  But  Cora  sprang  joyfully  toward 
the  bird. 

'*It  is  Ruky!"  she  cried,  striving  to  catch  it. 

Alas!  the  cup  lay  shattered  beneath  her  hand,  as,  with  a 
taunting  ''caw,  caw,"  the  crow  joined  its  fellows  and  flew 
away. 

Next,  gunners  came.  They  were  looking  for  other  birds; 
but  they  hated  the  crows,  Cora  knew,  and  she  trembled 
for  Ruky.  She  heard  the  sharp  crack  of  fowling-pieces 
in  the  forest,  and  shuddered  whenever  Nep,  pricking  up  his 
ears,  darted  with  an  angry  howl  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  She  knew,  too,  that  her  uncle  had  set  traps  for  the 
crows,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  world  was  against 
the  poor  birds,  plotting  their  destruction. 

Time  flew  by.     The  leaves  seemed  to  flash  into  bright  colors 


MARY  MAPES  DODGE  15 

and  fall  off  almost  in  a  day.  Frost  and  snow  came.  Still  the 
uncle  had  not  returned,  or,  if  he  had,  she  did  not  know  it. 
Her  brain  was  bewildered.  She  knew  not  whether  she  ate  or 
slept.  Only  the  terrible  firing  reached  her  ears,  or  that  living 
black  cloud  came  and  went  with  its  ceaseless  "caw." 

At  last,  during  a  terrible  night  of  wind  and  storm,  Cora 
felt  that  she  must  go  forth  and  seek  her  poor  bird. 

''Perhaps  he  is  freezing — dying!"  she  cried,  springing 
frantically  from  the  bed,  and  casting  her  long  cloak  over  her 
night-dress. 

In  a  moment,  she  was  trudging  barefooted  through  the 
snow.  It  was  so  deep  she  could  hardly  walk,  and  the  sleet 
was  driving  into  her  face ;  still  she  kept  on,  though  her  numbed 
feet  seemed  hardly  to  belong  to  her.  All  the  way  she  was 
praying  in  her  heart ;  promising  never,  never  to  be  passionate 
again,  if  she  only  could  find  her  bird — not  Ruky  the  boy, 
but  whatever  he  might  be.  She  was  willing  to  accept  her 
punishment.  Soon  a  faint  cry  reached  her  ear.  With  eager 
haste,  she  peered  into  every  fold  of  the  drifted  snow.  A  black 
object  caught  her  eye.  It  was  a  poor  storm-beaten  crow,  lying 
there  benumbed  and  stiff. 

For  Ruky's  sake  she  folded  it  closely  to  her  bosom,  and 
plodded  back  to  the  cottage.  The  fire  cast  a  rosy  light  on 
its  glossy  wing  as  she  entered,  but  the  poor  thing  did  not  stir. 
Softly  stroking  and  warming  it,  she  wrapped  the  frozen  bird 
in  soft  flannel  and  blew  into  its  open  mouth.  Soon,  to  her 
great  relief,  it  revived,  and  even  swallowed  a  few  grains  of 
wheat. 

Cold  and  weary,  she  cast  herself  upon  the  bed,  still  fold- 
ing the  bird  to  her  heart.  ' '  It  may  be  Ruky !  It  is  all  I 
ask,"  she  sobbed.     "I  dare  not  ask  for  more." 

Suddenly  she  felt  a  peculiar  stirring.  The  crow  seemed 
to  grow  larger.  Then,  in  the  dim  light,  she  felt  its  feathers 
pressing  lightly  against  her  cheek.  Next,  something  soft 
and  warm  wound  itself  tenderly  about  her  n?eck,  and  she 
heard  a  sweet  voice  saying: 

"Don't  cry,  Cor,— I  11  be  good." 

She  started  up.     It  was,  indeed,  her  own  darling!     The 


16  THE  CROW-CHILD 

i 

starlight   shone   into   the   room.    Lighting   her   candle,    she  | 

looked  at  the  clock.  j 

It  was  just  two  hours  since  she  had  uttered  those  cruel  ] 

words!     Sobbing,  she  asked:  j 

Have  I  been  asleep,  Ruky,  dear?"  \ 

I  don't  know,  Cor.     Do  people  cry  when  they  're  asleep?"  i 

Sometimes,  Ruky,"  clasping  him  very  close.  ■ 

Then  you  have  been  asleep.     But  Cor,  please  don't  let 

Uncle  whip  Ruky."  i 

**No,  no,  my  little  bird — I  mean,  my  brother.     Good  night,  i 

darling!"  \ 

*' Good  night."  ! 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  GREAT  BELL^ 

By  LAFCADIO  HEARN 

She  hath  spoken,  and  her  words  still  resound  in  his  ears. 

Hao-Khieou-Tchouan :  c.  ix. 

The  water-clock  marks  the  hour  in  the  Ta-chung  sz\ — in 
the  Tower  of  the  Great  Bell :  now  the  mallet  is  lifted  to  smite 
the  lips  of  the  metal  monster, — the  vast  lips  inscribed  with 
Buddhist  texts  from  the  sacred  Fa-hwa-King,  from  the  chap- 
ters of  the  holy  Ling -yen-King!  Hear  the  great  bell  re- 
sponding!— how  mighty  her  voice,  though  tongueless! — 
KO-NGAI!  All  the  little  dragons  on  the  high-tilted  eaves 
of  the  green  roofs  shiver  to  the  tips  of  their  gilded  tails  under 
that  deep  wave  of  sound;  all  the  porcelain  gargoyles  tremble 
on  their  carven  perches;  all  the  hundred  little  bells  of  the 
pagodas  quiver  with  desire  to  speak.  KO-NGAI! — all  the 
green-and-gold  tiles  of  the  temple  are  vibrating;  the  wooden 
goldfish  above  them  are  writhing  against  the  sky ;  the  uplifted 
finger  of  Fo  shakes  high  over  the  heads  of  the  worshippers 
through  the  blue  fog  of  incense!  KO-NGAI! — What  a  thun- 
der tone  was  that !  All  the  lacquered  goblins  on  the  palace 
cornices  wriggle  their  fire-colored  tongues !  And  after  each 
huge  shock,  how  wondrous  the  multiple  echo  and  the  great 
golden  moan  and,  at  last,  the  sudden  sibilant  sobbing  in  the 
ears  when  the  immense  tone  faints  away  in  broken  whispers 
of  silver, — as  though  a  woman  should  whisper,  ''Hiai!'* 
Even  so  the  great  bell  hath  sounded  every  day  for  well-nigh 
five  hundred  years, — Ko-Ngai:  first  with  stupendous  clang, 
then  with  immeasurable  moan  of  gold,  then  with  silver  mur- 
muring of  '^Eiai!"     And  there  is  not  a  child  in  all  the  many- 

1  From  Some  Chinese  Ohosts.  Copyright,  1887,  by  Little,  Brown  & 
Company. 

17 


18  THE  SOUL  OF  THE  GREAT  BELL 

colored  ways  of  the  old  Chinese  city  who  does  not  know  the 
story  of  the  great  bell, — who  cannot  tell  you  why  the  great 
bell  says  Ko-Ngai  and  Hiai! 

Now,  this  is  the  story  of  the  great  bell  in  the  Ta-chung  sz', 
as  the  same  is  related  in  the  Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue,  wiitten  by 
the  learned  Yu-Pao-Tchen,  of  the  City  of  Kwang-tchau-fu. 

Nearly  five  hundred  years  ago  the  Celestially  August,  the 
Son  of  Heaven,  Yong-Lo,  of  the  "Illustrious,"  or  Ming 
dynasty,  commanded  the  worthj^  official,  Kouan-Yu,  that  he 
should  have  a  bell  made  of  such  size  that  the  sound  thereof 
might  be  heard  for  one  hundred  li.  And  he  further  ordained 
that  the  voice  of  the  bell  should  be  strengthened  with  brass, 
and  deepened  with  gold,  and  sweetened  with  silver;  and  that 
the  face  and  the  great  lips  of  it  should  be  graven  with 
blessed  sayings  from  the  sacred  books,  and  that  it  should 
be  suspended  in  the  centre  of  the  imperial  capital,  to  sound 
through  all  the  many-colored  ways  of  the  City  of  Pe-king. 

Therefore  the  worthy  mandarin,  Kouan-Yu,  assembled  the 
master-moulders  and  the  renowned  bellsmiths  of  the  empire, 
and  all  men  of  great  repute  and  cunning  in  foundry  work; 
and  they  measured  the  materials  for  the  alloy,  and  treated 
them  skilfully,  and  prepared  the  moulds,  the  fires,  the  instru- 
ments, and  the  monstrous  melting-pot  for  fusing  the  metal. 
And  they  labored  exceedingly,  like  giants, — neglecting  only 
rest  and  sleep  and  the  comforts  of  life ;  toiling  both  night  and 
day  in  obedience  to  Kouan-Yu,  and  striving  in  all  things  to 
do  the  behest  of  the  Son  of  Heaven. 

But  when  the  metal  had  been  cast,  and  the  earthen  mould 
separated  from  the  glovving  casting,  it  was  discovered  that, 
despite  their  great  labor  and  ceaseless  care,  the  result  was 
void  of  worth ;  for  the  metals  had  rebelled  one  against  the 
other, — the  gold  had  scorned  alliance  with  the  brass,  the  silver 
would  not  mingle  with  the  molten  iron.  Therefore  the  moulds 
had  to  be  once  more  prepared,  and  the  fires  rekindled,  and 
the  metal  remelted,  and  all  the  work  tediously  and  toilsomely 
repeated.  The  Son  of  Heaven  heard,  and  was  angry,  but 
spake  nothing. 


LAFCADIO  HEARN  19 

A  second  time  the  bell  was  cast,  and  the  result  was  even 
worse.  Still  the  metals  obstinately  refused  to  blend  one  with 
the  other;  and  there  was  no  uniformity  in  the  bell,  and  the 
sides  of  it  were  cracked  and  fissured,  and  the  lips  of  it  were 
slagged  and  split  asunder;  so  that  all  the  labor  had  to  be 
repeated  even  a  third  time,  to  the  great  dismay  of  Kouan-Yu. 
And  when  the  Son  of  Heaven  heard  these  things,  he  was 
angrier  than  before ;  and  sent  his  messenger  to  Kouan-Yu  with 
a  letter,  written  upon  lemon-colored  silk,  and  sealed  with  the 
seal  of  the  Dragon,  containing  these  words: — 

.  /'From  the  Mighty  Yong-Lo,  the  Sublime  T ait-Sung,  the 
Celestial  and  August, — whose  reign  is  called  'Ming/ — to 
Kouan-Yu  the  Fuh-yin:  Twice  thou  hast  betrayed  the  trust 
we  have  deigned  graciously  to  place  in  thee;  if  thou  fail  a 
third  time  in  fulfilling  our  commandy  thy  head  shall  he  severed 
from  thy  neck.     Tremble,  and  obey!'^ 

Now,  Kouan-Yu  had  a  daughter  of  dazzling  loveliness,  whose 
name — Ko-Ngai — was  ever  in  the  mouths  of  poets,  and  whose 
heart  was  even  more  beautiful  than  her  face.  Ko-Ngai  loved 
her  father  with  such  love  that  she  had  refused  a  hundred 
worthy  suitors  rather  than  make  his  home  desolate  by  her  ab- 
sence; and  when  she  had  seen  the  awful  yellow  missive, 
sealed  with  the  Dragon-Seal,  she  fainted  away  with  fear 
for  her  father's  sake.  And  when  her  senses  and  her  strength 
returned  to  her,  she  could  not  rest  or  sleep  for  thinking  of 
her  parent's  danger,  until  she  had  secretly  sold  some  of  her 
jewels,  and  with  the  money  so  obtained  had  hastened  to  an 
astrologer,  and  paid  him  a  great  price  to  advise  her  by  what 
means  her  father  might  be  saved  from  the  peril  impending 
over  him.  So  the  astrologer  made  observations  of  the  heavens, 
and  marked  the  aspect  of  the  Silver  Stream  (which  we  call 
the  Milky  Way),  and  examined  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac, — the 
Hicang-tao,  or  Yellow  Road, — and  consulted  the  table  of  the 
Five  Bin,  or  Principles  of  the  Universe,  and  the  mystical 
books  of  the  alchemists.  And  after  a  long  silence,  he  made 
answer  to  her,  saying:     "Gold  and  brass  will  never  meet  in 


20  THE  SOUL  OF  THE  GREAT  BELL 

wedlock,  silver  and  iron  never  will  embrace,  until  the  flesh 
of  a  maiden  be  melted  in  the  crucible;  until  the  blood  of  a 
virgin  be  mixed  with  the  metals  in  their  fusion."  So  Ko- 
Ngai  returned  home  sorrowful  at  heart ;  but  she  kept  secret  all 
that  she  had  heard,  and  told  no  one  what  she  had  done. 

At  last  came  the  awful  day  when  the  third  and  last  effort 
to  cast  the  great  bell  was  to  be  made;  and  Ko-Ngai,  together 
with  her  waiting-woman,  accompanied  her  father  to  the 
foundry,  and  they  took  their  places  upon  a  platform  over- 
looking the  toiling  of  the  moulders  and  the  lava  of  liquefied 
metal.  All  the  workmen  wrought  their  tasks  in  silence ;  there 
was  no  sound  heard  but  the  muttering  of  the  fires.  And  the 
muttering  deepened  into  a  roar  like  the  roar  of  typhoons  ap- 
proaching, and  the  blood-red  lake  of  metal  slowly  brightened 
like  the  vermilion  of  a  sunrise,  and  the  vermilion  was  trans- 
muted into  a  radiant  glow  of  gold,  and  the  gold  whitened 
blindingly,  like  the  silver  face  of  a  full  moon.  Then  the 
workers  ceased  to  feed  the  raving  flame,  and  all  fixed  their 
eyes  upon  the  eyes  of  Kouan-Yu ;  and  Kouan-Yu  prepared  to 
give  the  signal  to  cast. 

But  ere  ever  he  lifted  his  finger,  a  cry  caused  him  to  turn  his 
head ;  and  all  heard  the  voice  of  Ko-Ngai  sounding  sharply 
sweet  as  a  bird's  song  above  the  great  thunder  of  the  fires, — 
**For  thy  sake,  O  my  Father!'^  And  even  as  she  cried,  she 
leaped  into  the  white  flood  of  metal;  and  the  lava  of  the 
furnace  roared  to  receive  her,  and  spattered  monstrous  flakes 
of  flame  to  the  roof,  and  burst  over  the  verge  of  the  earthen 
crater,  and  cast  up  a  whirling  fountain  of  many-colored  fires, 
and  subsided  quakingly,  with  lightnings  and  with  thunders 
and  with  mutterings. 

Then  the  father  of  Ko-Ngai,  wild  with  his  grief,  would  have 
leaped  in  after  her,  but  that  strong  men  held  him  back  and 
kept  firm  grasp  upon  him  until  he  had  fainted  away  and  they 
could  bear  him  like  one  dead  to  his  home.  And  the  serving- 
woman  of  Ko-Ngai,  dizzy  and  speechless  for  pain,  stood  before 
the  furnace,  still  holding  in  her  hands  a  shoe,  a  tiny,  dainty 
shoe,  with  embroidery  of  pearls  and  flowers, — the  shoe  of  her 


LAFCADIO  HEARN  21 

beautiful  mistress  that  was.  For  she  had  sought  to  grasp  Ko- 
Ngai  by  the  foot  as  she  leaped,  but  had  only  been  able  to 
clutch  the  shoe,  and  the  pretty  shoe  came  olf  in  her  hand; 
and  she  continued  to  stare  at  it  like  one  gone  mad. 

But  in  spite  of  all  these  things,  the  command  of  the  Celes- 
tial and  August  had  to  be  obeyed,  and  the  work  of  the 
moulders  to  be  finished,  hopeless  as  the  result  might  be.  Yet 
the  glow  of  the  metal  seemed  purer  and  whiter  than  before; 
and  there  was  no  sign  of  the  beautiful  body  that  had  been 
entombed  therein.  So  the  ponderous  easting  was  made;  and 
lo!  when  the  metal  had  become  cool,  it  was  found  that  the 
bell  was  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  perfect  in  form,  and 
wonderful  in  color  above  all  other  bells.  Nor  was  there  any 
trace  found  of  the  body  of  Ko-Ngai ;  for  it  had  been  totally 
absorbed  bj^  the  precious  alloy,  and  blended  with  the  well- 
blended  brass  and  gold,  with  the  intermingling  of  the  silver 
and  iron.  And  when  they  sounded  the  bell,  its  tones  were 
found  to  be  deeper  and  mellower  and  mightier  than  the  tones 
of  any  other  bell, — reaching  even  beyond  the  distance  of  one 
hundred  li,  like  a  pealing  of  summer  thunder;  and  yet  also 
like  some  vast  voice  uttering  a  name,  a  woman's  name, — the 
name  of  Ko-Ngai! 

And  still,  between  each  mighty  stroke  there  is  a  long  low 
moaning  heard;  and  ever  the  moaning  ends  with  a  sound  of 
sobbing  and  complaining,  as  though  a  weeping  woman  should 
murmur,  "BiaiV  And  still,  when  the  people  hear  that  great 
golden  moan  they  keep  silence ;  but  when  the  sharp,  sweet 
shuddering  comes  in  the  air,  and  the  sobbing  of  "Uiai!" 
then,  indeed,  do  all  the  Chinese  mothers  in  all  the  many- 
colored  ways  of  Pe-king  whisper  to  their  little  ones :  ^'Listen! 
that  is  Ko-Ngai  crying  for  her  shoe!  That  is  Ko-Ngai  call- 
ing for  her  shoeT' 


THE  TEN  TRAILS 
By  ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 

Once  there  were  two  Indians  who  went  out  together  to 
hunt.  Hapeda  was  very  strong  and  swift  and  a  wonderful 
bowman.  Chatun  was  much  weaker  and  carried  a  weaker 
bow;  but  he  was  very  patient. 

As  they  went  through  the  hills  they  came  on  the  fresh 
track  of  a  small  Deer.  Chatun  said:  "My  brother,  I  shall 
follow  that." 

But  Hapeda  said:  "You  may  if  you  like,  but  a  mighty 
hunter  like  me  wants  bigger  game."        ' 

So  they  parted. 

Hapeda  went  on  for  an  hour  or  more  and  found  the  track 
of  ten  large  Elk  going  different  ways.  He  took  the  trail 
of  the  largest  and  followed  for  a  long  way,  but  not  coming 
up  with  it,  he  said:  "That  one  is  evidently  traveling.  J 
should  have  taken  one  of  the  others." 

So  he  went  back  to  the  place  where  he  first  found  it,  and 
took  up  the  trail  of  another.  After  a  hunt  of  over  an  hour 
in  which  he  failed  to  get  a  shot,  he  said:  "I  have  followed 
another  traveler.  I  '11  go  back  and  take  up  the  trail  of.  one 
that  is  feeding." 

But  again,  after  a  short  pursuit,  he  gave  up  that  one  to  go 
back  and  try  another  that  seemed  more  promising.  Thus  he 
spent  a  whole  day  trying  each  of  the  trails  for  a  short  time, 
and  at  night  came  back  to  camp  with  nothing,  to  find  that 
Chatun,  though  his  inferior  in  all  other  ways,  had  proved 
wiser.  He  had  stuck  doggedly  to  the  trail  of  the  one  little 
Deer,  and  now  had  its  carcass  safelj^  in  camp. 

Moral  :     The  Prize  is  always  at  the  end  of  the  trail. 


22 


WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO  ^ 

By  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

In  a  certain  town  there  lived  a  shoemaker  named  Martin 
Avdeitch.  He  lived  in  a  basement  room  which  possessed  but 
one  window.  This  window  looked  onto  the  street,  and  through 
it  a  glimpse  could  be  caught  of  the  passers-by.  It  is  true  that 
only  their  legs  could  be  seen,  but  that  did  not  matter,  as 
Martin  could  recognize  people  by  their  boots  alone.  He  had 
lived  here  for  a  long  time,  and  so  had  many  acquaintances. 
There  were  very  few  pairs  of  boots  in  the  neighbourhood 
which  had  not  passed  through  his  hands  at  least  once,  if  not 
twice.  Some  he  had  resoled,  others  he  had  fitted  with  side- 
pieces,  others,  again,  he  had  resewn  where  they  were  split, 
or  provided  with  new  toe-caps.  Yes,  he  often  saw  his  handi- 
work through  that  window.  He  was  given  plenty  of  custom, 
for  his  work  lasted  well,  his  materials  were  good,  his  prices 
moderate,  and  his  word  to  be  depended  on.  If  he  could  do  a 
job  by  a  given  time  it  should  be  done ;  but  if  not,  he  would 
warn  you  beforehand  rather  than  disappoint  you.  Every- 
one knew  Avdeitch,  and  no  one  ever  transferred  his  custom 
from  him.  He  had  always  been  an  upright  man,  but  with 
the  approach  of  old  age  he  had  begun  more  than  ever  to  think 
of  his  soul,  and  to  draw  nearer  to  God. 

His  wife  had  died  while  he  was  still  an  apprentice,  leav- 
ing behind  her  a  little  boy  of  three.  This  was  their  only  child, 
indeed,  for  the  two  elder  ones  had  died  previously.  At  first 
Martin  thought  of  placing  the  little  fellow  with  a  sister  of 
his  in  the  country,  but  changed  his  mind,  thinking:     "My 

1  Reprinted  from  the  Everyman  Edition  of  Tolstoi's  Tales  and  Parables, 
by  special  permission  of  the  publishers.  Copyright  by  E.  P.  Button  & 
Company. 

23 


24  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

Kapitoshka  would  not  like  to  grow  up  in  a  strange  family,  so 
I  will  keep  him  by  me."  Then  Avdeitch  finished  his  ap- 
prenticeship, and  went  to  live  in  lodgings  with  his  little  boy. 
But  God  had  not  seen  fit  to  give  Avdeitch  happiness  in  his 
children.  The  little  boy  was  just  growing  up  and  beginning 
to  help  his  father  and  to  be  a  pleasure  to  him,  when  he  fell  ill, 
was  put  to  bed,  and  died  after  a  week's  fever. 

Martin  buried  the  little  fellow  and  was  inconsolable.  In- 
deed, he  was  so  inconsolable  that  he  began  to  murmur  against 
God.  His  life  seemed  so  empty  that  more  than  once  he  prayed 
for  death  and  reproached  the  Almighty  for  taking  away  his 
only  beloved  son  instead  of  himself,  the  old  man.  At  last  he 
ceased  altogether  to  go  to  church. 

Then  one  day  there  came  to  see  him  an  ancient  peasant- 
pilgrim — one  who  was  now  in  the  eighth  year  of  his  pil- 
grimage. To  him  Avdeitch  talked,  and  then  went  on  to  com- 
plain of  his  great  sorrow. 

"I  no  longer  wish  to  be  a  God-fearing  man,"  he  said.  "I 
only  wish  to  die.  That  is  all  I  ask  of  God.  I  am  a  lonely, 
hopeless  man." 

''You  should  not  speak  like  that,  Martin,"  replied  the  old 
pilgrim.  "It  is  not  for  us  to  judge  the  acts  of  God.  We 
must  rely,  not  upon  our  own  understanding,  but  upon  the 
Divine  wisdom.  God  saw  fit  that  your  son  should  die  and 
that  you  should  live.  Therefore  it  must  be  better  so.  If  you 
despair,  it  is  because  you  have  wished  to  live  too  much  for 
your  own  pleasure." 

"For  what,  then,  should  I  live?"  asked  Martin. 

"For  God  alone,"  replied  the  old  man.  "It  is  He  who 
gave  you  life,  and  therefore  it  is  He  for  whom  you  should  live. 
When  you  come  to  live  for  Him  you  will  cease  to  grieve,  and 
your  trials  will  become  easy  to  bear." 

Martin  was  silent.     Then  he  spoke  again. 

"But  how  am  I  to  live  for  God?"  he  asked. 

"Christ  has  shown  us  the  way,"  answered  the  old  man. 
"Can  you  read?  If  so,  buy  a  Testament  and  study  it.  You 
will  learn  there  how  to  live  for  God.  Yes,  it  is  all  shown  you 
there." 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  25 

These  words  sank  into  Avdeitch's  soul.  He  went  out  the 
same  day,  bought  a  large-print  copy  of  the  New  Testament, 
and  set  himself  to  read  it. 

At  the  beginning  Avdeitch  had  meant  only  to  read  on 
festival  days,  but  when  he  once  began  his  reading  he  found 
it  so  comforting  to  the  soul  that  he  came  never  to  let  a  day 
pass  without  doing  so.  On  the  second  occasion  he  became  so 
engrossed  that  all  the  kerosene  was  burnt  away  in  the  lamp 
before  he  could  tear  himself  away  from  the  book. 

Thus  he  came  to  read  it  every  evening,  and,  the  more  he 
read,  the  more  clearly  did  he  understand  what  God  required 
of  him,  and  in  what  way  he  could  live  for  God;  so  that  his 
heart  grew  ever  lighter  and  lighter.  Once  upon  a  time,  when- 
ever he  had  lain  down  to  sleep,  he  had  been  used  to  moan  and 
sigh  as  he  thought  of  his  little  Kapitoshka;  but  now  he  only 
said— ''Glory  to  Thee,  0  Lord!  Glory  to  Thee!  Thy  will 
be  done!" 

From  that  time  onwards  Avdeitch's  life  became  completely 
changed.  Once  he  had  been  used  to  go  out  on  festival  days 
and  drink  tea  in  a  tavern,  and  had  not  denied  himself  even  an 
occasional  glass  of  vodka.  This  he  had  done  in  the  company 
of  a  boon  companion,  and,  although  no  drunkard,  would  fre- 
quently leave  the  tavern  in  an  excited  state  and  talk  much  non- 
sense as  he  shouted  and  disputed  with  this  friend  of  his.  But 
now  he  had  turned  his  back  on  all  this,  and  his  life  had  be- 
come quiet  and  joyous.  Early  in  the  morning  he  would  sit 
down  to  his  work,  and  labor  through  his  appointed  hours. 
Then  he  would  take  the  lamp  down  from  a  shelf,  light  it,  and 
sit  down  to  read.  And  the  more  he  read,  the  more  he  under- 
stood, and  the  clearer  and  happier  he  grew  at  heart. 

It  happened  once  that  Martin  had  been  reading  late.  He 
had  been  reading  those  verses  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  the 
Gospel  of  St.  Luke  which  run : 

"And  unto  him  that  smiteth  thee  on  the  one  cheek  offer 
also  the  other;  and  him  that  taketh  away  thy  cloke  forbid 
not  to  take  thy  coat  also.  Give  to  every  man  that  asketh 
of  thee ;  and  of  him  that  taketh  away  thy  goods  ask  them  not 


26  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

again.  And  as  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye 
also  to  them  likewise." 

Then,  further  on,  he  had  read  those  verses  where  the  Lord 
says : 

"And  why  call  ye  Me,  Lord,  Lord,  and  do  not  the  things 
which  I  say  ?  Whosoever  cometh  to  Me  and  heareth  my  say- 
ings, and  doeth  them,  I  will  show  you  to  whom  he  is  like :  He  is 
like  a  man  which  built  an  house,  and  digged  deep,  and  laid  the 
foundation  on  a  rock :  and  when  the  flood  arose,  the  storm  beat 
vehemently  upon  that  house,  and  could  not  shake  it:  for  it 
was  founded  upon  a  rock.  But  he  that  heareth  and  doeth  not, 
is  like  a  man  that  without  a  foundation  built  an  house  upon 
the  earth ;  against  which  the  stream  did  beat  vehemently,  and 
immediately  it  fell ;  and  the  ruin  of  that  house  was  great. 

Avdeitch  read  these  words,  and  felt  greatly  cheered  in 
soul.  He  took  off  his  spectacles,  laid  them  on  the  book, 
leaned  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
meditation.  He  set  himself  to  measure  his  own  life  by  those 
words,  and  thoiight  to  himself: 

''Is  my  house  founded  upon  a  rock  or  upon  sand?  It  is 
well  if  it  be  upon  a  rock.  Yet  it  seems  so  easy  to  me  as  I 
sit  here  alone.  I  may  so  easily  come  to  think  that  I  have 
done  all  that  the  Lord  has  commanded  me,  and  grow  careless 
and — sin  again.  Yet  I  will  keep  on  striving,  for  it  is  goodly 
so  to  do.     Help  Thou  me,  0  Lord." 

Thus  he  kept  on  meditating,  though  conscious  that  it  was 
time  for  bed ;  yet  he  was  loathe  to  tear  himself  away  from 
the  book.  He  began  to. read  the  seventh  chapter  of  St.  Luke, 
and  read  on  about  the  centurion,  the  widow's  son,  and  the 
answer  given  to  John's  disciples;  until  in  time  he  came  to  the 
passage  where  the  rich  Pharisee  invited  Jesus  to  his  house,  and 
the  woman  washed  the  Lord's  feet  with  her  tears  and  He 
justified  her.     So  he  came  to  the  forty-fourth  verse  and  read: 

**And  He  turned  to  the  woman,  and  said  unto  Simon, 
Seest  thou  this  woman  ?  T  entered  into  thine  house,  and  thou 
gavest  Me  no  water  for  My  feet:  but  she  hath  washed  My 
feet  with  tears,  and  wiped  them  with  the  hairs  of  her  head. 
Thou  gavest  Me  no  kiss:  but  this  woman  since  the  time  I 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  27 

came  in  hath  not  ceased  to  kiss  My  feet.  My  head  with 
oil  thou  didst  not  anoint:  but  this  woman  hath  anointed  My 
feet  with  ointment." 

He  read  these  verses  and  thought: 

"  'Thou  gavest  Me  no  water  for  My  feet'  .  .  .  'Thou  gavest 
Me  no  kiss'  .  .  .  'My  head  with  oil  thou  didst  not  anoint' 
.  .  . ' ' — and  once  again  he  took  off  his  spectacles,  laid  them  on 
the  book,  and  became  lost  in  meditation. 

"I  am  even  as  that  Pharisee,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "I 
drink  tea  and  think  only  of  my  own  needs.  Yes,  I  think 
only  of  having  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  of  being  warm  and 
clean — but  never  of  entertaining  a  guest.  And  Simon  too 
was  mindful  only  of  himself,  although  the  guest  who  had  come 
to  visit  him  was — who?  Why,  even  the  Lord  Himself!  If, 
then,  He  should  come  to  visit  me,  should  I  receive  Him  any 
better?" — and,  leaning  forward  upon  his  elbows,  he  was 
asleep  almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it. 

** Martin!"  someone  seemed  to  breathe  in  his  ear. 

He  started  from  his  sleep. 

**Who  is  there?"  he  said.  He  turned  and  looked  towards 
the  door,  but  could  see  no  one.  Again  he  bent  forward  over 
the  table.     Then  suddenlv  he  heard  the  words: 

« 

''Martin,  Martin!  Look  thou  into  the  street  to-morrow, 
for  I  am  coming  to  visit  thee." 

Martin  roused  himself,  got  up  from  the  chair,  and  rubbed 
his  eyes.  He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  dreaming  or 
awake  that  he  had  heard  these  words,  but  he  turned  out  the 
lamp  and  went  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  Avdeitch  rose  before  daylight  and  said 
his  prayers.  Then  he  made  up  the  stove,  got  ready  some 
cabbage  soup  and  porridge,  lighted  the  samovar^  slung  his 
leather  apron  about  him,  and  sat  down  to  his  work  in  the 
window.  He  sat  and  worked  hard,  yet  all  the  time  his 
thougrhts  were  centred  upon  last  night.  He  was  in  two 
ideas  about  the  vision.  At  one  moment  he  would  think  that 
it  must  have  been  his  fancy,  while  the  next  moment  he  would 
find  himself  convinced  that  he  had  really  heard  the  voice. 

Yes,  it  must  have  been  so,"  he  concluded. 


(( 


28  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

As  Martin  sat  thus  by  the  window  he  kept  looking  out  of 
it  as  much- as  working.  Whenever  a  pair  of  boots  passed  with 
which  he  was  acquainted  he  would  bend  down  to  glance  up- 
wards through  the  window  and  see  their  owner's  face  as  well. 
The  doorkeeper  passed  in  new  felt  boots,  and  then  a  water- 
carrier.  Next,  an  old  soldier,  a  veteran  of  Nicholas'  army,  in 
old,  patched  boots,  and  carrying  a  shovel  in  his  hands,  halted 
close  by  the  window.  Avdeitch  knew  him  by  his  boots.  His 
name  was  Stepanitch,  and  he  was  kept  by  a  neighboring 
tradesman  out  of  charity,  his  duties  being  to  help  the  door- 
keeper. He  began  to  clear  away  the  snow  from  in  front  of 
Avdeitch 's  window,  while  the  shoemaker  looked  at  him  and 
then  resumed  his  work. 

"I  think  I  must  be  getting  into  my  dotage,''  thought 
Avdeitch  with  a  smile.  ''Just  because  Stepanitch  begins 
clearing  away  the  snow  I  at  once  jump  to  the  conclusion  that 
Christ  is  about  to  visit  me.  Yes,  I  am  growing  foolish  now, 
old  greybeard  that  I  am." 

Yet  he  had  hardly  made  a  dozen  stitches  before  he  was 
craning  his  neck  again  to  look  out  of  the  window.  He  could 
see  that  Stepanitch  had  placed  his  shovel  against  the  wall, 
and  was  resting  and  trying  to  warm  himself  a  little. 

"He  is  evidently  an  old  man  now  and  broken,"  thought 
Avdeitch  to  himself.  "He  is  not  strong  enough  to  clear 
away  snow.  Would  he  like  some  tea,  I  wonder?  That  re- 
minds me  that  the  samovar  must  be  ready  now." 

He  made  fast  his  awl  in  his  work  and  got  up.  Placing  the 
samovar  on  the  table,  he  brewed  the  tea,  and  then  tapped  with 
his  finger  on  the  window-pane.  Stepanitch  turned  round  and 
approached.  Avdeitch  beckoned  to  him,  and  then  went  to 
open  the  door. 

"Come  in  and  warm  yourself,"  he  said.  "You  must  be 
frozen. ' ' 

"Christ  requite  you!"  answered  Stepanitch.  "Yes,  my 
bones  are  almost  cracking." 

He  came  in,  shook  the  snow  off  himself,  and,  though  tot- 
tering on  his  feet,  took  pains  to  wipe  them  carefully,  that  he 
might  not  dirty  the  floor. 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  29 

**Nay,  do  not  trouble  about  that/'  said  Avdeitch.  ''I  will 
wipe  your  boots  myself.  It  is  part  of  my  business  in  this 
trade.  Come  you  here  and  sit  down,  and  we  will  empty 
this  tea-pot  together." 

He  poured  out  two  tumblerfuls,  and  offered  one  to  his 
guest;  after  which  he  emptied  his  own  into  the  saucer,  and 
blew  upon  it  to  cool  it.  Stepanitch  drank  his  tumblerful, 
turned  the  glass  upside  down,  placed  his  crust  upon  it,  and 
thanked  his  host  kindly.  But  it  was  plain  that  he  wanted 
another  one. 

"You  must  drink  some  more,"  said  Avdeitch,  and  refilled 
his  guest's  tumbler  and  his  own.  Yet,  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
had  no  sooner  drunk  his  tea  than  he  found  himself  looking  out 
into  the  street  again. 

''Are  you  expecting  anyone?"  asked  his  guest. 

"Am — am  I  expecting  anyone?  Well,  to  tell  the  truth, 
yes.  That  is  to  say,  I  am,  and  I  am  not.  The  fact  is  that 
some  words  have  got  fixed  in  my  memory.  Whether  it  was 
a  vision  or  not  I  cannot  tell,  but  at  all  events,  my  old  friend, 
I  was  reading  in  the  Gospels  last  night  about  Our  Little 
Father  Christ,  and  how  He  walked  this  earth  and  suffered. 
You  have  heard  of  Him,  have  you  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have  heard  of  Him,"  answered  Stepanitch; 
"but  we  are  ignorant  folk  and  do  not  know  our  letters." 

"Well,  I  was  reading  of  how  He  walked  this  earth,  and 
how  He  went  to  visit  a  Pharisee,  and  yet  received  no  wel- 
come from  him  at  the  door.  All  this  I  read  last  night,  my 
friend,  and  then  fell  to  thinking  about  it — to  thinking  how 
some  day  I  too  might  fail  to  pay  Our  Little  Father  Christ  due 
honor.  'Suppose,'  I  thought  to  myself,  'He  came  to  me  or 
to  anyone  like  me?  Should  we,  like  the  great  lord  Simon,  not 
know  how  to  receive  Him  and  not  go  out  to  meet  Him  ? '  Thus 
I  thought,  and  fell  asleep  where  I  sat.  Then  as  I  sat  sleep- 
ing there  I  heard  someone  call  my  name ;  and  as  I  raised  my- 
self the  voice  went  on  (as  though  it  were  the  voice  of  some- 
one whispering  in  my  ear)  :  'Watch  thou  for  me  to-morrow, 
for  I  am  coming  to  visit  thee.'  It  said  that  twice.  And 
so  those  words  have  got  into  my  head,  and,  foolish  though  I 


30  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

know  it  to  be,  I  keep  expecting  Him — the  Little  Father — 
every  moment." 

Stepanitch  nodded  and  said  nothing,  but  emptied  his  glass 
and  laid  it  aside.     Nevertheless  Avdeitch  took  and  refilled  it. 

' '  Drink  it  up ;  it  will  do  you  good, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Do  you 
know,"  he  went  on,  "I  often  call  to  mind  how  when  Our 
Little  Father  walked  this  earth,  there  was  never  a  man,  how- 
ever humble,  whom  He  despised,  and  how  it  was  chiefly  among 
the  common  people  that  He  dwelt.  It  was  always  with  the^n 
that  He  walked;  it  was  from  among  them — from  among  such 
men  as  you  and  I — from  among  sinners  and  working  folk — 
that  He  chose  His  disciples.  'Whosoever,'  He  said,  'shall 
exalt  himself^  the  same  shall  be  abased;  and  whosoever  shall 
abase  himself,  the  same  shall  be  exalted.'  'You,'  He  said 
again,  'call  me  Lord;  yet  will  I  wash  your  feet.'  'Whoso- 
ever,' He  said,  'would  be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  the 
servant  of  all.  Because,'  He  said,  'blessed  are  the  lowly,  the 
peacemakers,  the  merciful,  and  the  charitable.'  " 

Stepanitch  had  forgotten  all  about  his  tea.  He  was  an  old 
man,  and  his  tears  came  easily.  He  sat  and  listened,  with 
the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 

"Oh,  but  you  must  drink  your  tea,"  said  Avdeitch;  yet 
Stepanitch  only  crossed  himself  and  said  the  thanksgiving, 
after  which  he  pushed  his  glass  away  and  rose. 

"I  thank  you,  Martin  Avdeitch,"  he  said.  "You  have 
taken  me  in,  and  fed  both  soul  and  body." 

"Nay,  but  I  beg  of  you  to  come  again,"  replied  Avdeitch. 
"I  am  only  too  glad  of  a  guest." 

So  Stepanitch  departed,  while  Martin  poured  out  the  last 
of  the  tea  and  drank  it.  Then  he  cleaned  the  crockery,  and 
sat  down  again  to  his  work  by  the  window — to  the  stitching 
of  a  back-piece.  He  stitched  away,  yet  kept  on  looking 
through  the  window — looking  for  Christ,  as  it  were — and  ever 
thinking  of  Christ  and  His  works.  Indeed,  Christ's  many 
sayings  were  never  absent  from  Avdeitch 's  mind. 

Two  soldiers  passed  the  window,  the  one  in  military  boots, 
and  the  other  in  civilian.     Next,  there  came  a  neighboring 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  31 

householder,  in  polished  goloshes ;  then  a  baker  with  a  basket. 
All  of  them  passed  on.  Presently  a  woman  in  woollen  stock- 
ings and  rough  country  shoes  approached  the  window,  and 
halted  near  the  buttress  outside  it.  Avdeitch  peered  up  at 
her  from  under,  the  lintel  of  his  window,  and  could  see  that 
she  was  a  plain-looking,  poorly-dressed  woman  and  had  a 
child  in  her  arms.  It  was  in  order  to  muffle  the  child  up 
more  closely — little  though  she  had  to  do  it  with ! — that  she 
had  stopped  near  the  buttress  and  was  now  standing  there 
with  her  back  to  the  wind.  Her  clothing  was  ragged  and 
fit  only  for  summer,  and  even  from  behind  his  window-panes 
Avdeitch  could  hear  the  child  crying  miserably  and  its  mother 
vainly  trying  to  soothe  it.  Avdeitch  rose,  went  to  the  door, 
climbed  the  steps,  and  cried  out:  "My  good  woman,  my 
good  woman ! ' ' 

She  heard  him  and  turned  round. 

"Why  need  you  stand  there  in  the  cold  with  your  baby?" 
he  went  on.  "Come  into  my  room,  where  it  is  warm,  and 
where  you  will  be  able  to  wrap  the  baby  up  more  comfortably 
than  you  can  do  here.     Yes,  come  in  with  you." 

The  woman  was  surprised  to  see  an  old  man  in  a  leather 
apron  and  with  spectacles  upon  his  nose  calling  out  to  her,  yet 
she  followed  him  down  the  steps,  and  they  entered  his  room. 
The  old  man  led  her  to  the  bedstead. 

"Sit  you  down  here,  my  good  woman,"  he  said.  "You  will 
be  near  the  stove,  and  can  warm  yourself  and  feed  your  baby. ' ' 
^  "Ah,"  she  replied.  "I  have  had  nothing  to  eat  this  morn- 
ing."    Nevertheless  she  put  the  child  to  her  breast. 

Avdeitch  nodded  his  head  approvingly,  went  to  the  table 
for  some  bread  and  a  basin,  and  opened  the  stove  door.  From 
the  stove  he  took  and  poured  some  soup  into  the  basin,  and 
drew  out  also  a  bowl  of  porridge.  The  latter,  however,  was 
not  yet  boiling,  so  he  set  out  only  the  soup,  after  first  laying 
the  table  with  a  cloth. 

"Sit  down  and  eat,  my  good  woman,"  he  said,  "while  I 
hold  your  baby.  I  have  had  little  ones  of  my  own,  and  know 
how  to  nurse  them." 

The  woman  crossed  herself  and  sat  down,  while  Avdeitch 


32  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

seated  himself  upon  the  bedstead  with  the  baby.  He  smacked 
his  lips  at  it  once  or  twice,  but  made  a  poor  show  of  it,  for  he 
had  no  teeth  left.  Consequently  the  baby  went  on  crying. 
Then  he  bethought  him  of  his  finger,  which  he  wriggled  to 
and  fro  towards  the  baby's  mouth  and  back  again — without, 
however,  actually  touching  the  little  one's  lips,  since  the  finger 
was  blackened  with  work  and  sticky  with  shoemaker's  wax. 
The  baby  contemplated  the  finger  and  grew  quiet — then  actu- 
ally smiled.  Avdeitch  was  delighted.  Meanwhile  the  woman 
had  been  eating  her  meal,  and  now  she  told  him,  unasked,  who 
she  was  and  whither  she  was  going. 

*'I  am  a  soldier's  wife,"  she  said,  ''but  my  husband  was 
sent  to  a  distant  station  eight  months  ago,  and  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  him  since.  At  first  I  got  a  place  as  cook,  but  when 
the  baby  came  they  said  they  could  not  do  with  it  and  dis- 
missed me.  That  was  three  months  ago,  and  I  have  got  noth- 
ing since,  and  have  spent  all  my  savings.  I  tried  to  get  taken 
as  a  nurse,  but  no  one  would  have  me,  for  they  said  I  was 
too  thin.  I  have  just  been  to  see  a  tradesman's  wife  where 
our  grandmother  is  in  service.  She  had  promised  to  take 
me  on,  and  I  quite  thought  that  she  would,  but  when  I  arrived 
to-day  she  told  me  to  come  again  next  week.  She  lives  a  long 
way  from  here,  and  I  am  quite  worn  out  and  have  tired  my 
baby  for  nothing.  Thank  Heaven,  however,  my  landlady  is 
good  to  me,  and  gives  me  shelter  for  Christ's  sake.  Other- 
wise I  should  not  have  known  how  to  bear  it  all." 

Avdeitch  sighed  and  said  :  ' '  But  have  you  nothing  warm  to 
wear?" 

''Ah,  sir,''  replied  the  woman,  "although  it  is  the  time  for 
warm  clothes  I  had  to  pawn  my  last  shawl  yesterday  for  two 

grivenki.^'  ^ 

Then  the  woman  returned  to  the  bedstead  to  take  her  baby, 
while  Avdeitch  rose  and  went  to  a  cupboard.  There  he  rum- 
maged about,  and  presently  returned  with  an  old  jacket. 

"Here,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  poor  old  thing,  but  it  will  serve 
to  cover  you." 

The  woman  looked  at  the  jacket,  and  then  at  the  old  man. 

1  The  OTivenka  =  10  copecks  ==  about  five  cents. 


COUKT  LEO  TOLSTOI  33 

Then  she  took  the  jacket  and  burst  into  tears.  Avdeitch 
turned  away,  and  went  creeping  under  the  bedstead,  whence 
he  extracted  a  box  and  pretended  to  rummage  about  in  it 
for  a  few  moments ;  after  which  he  sat  down  again  before  the 
woman. 

Then  the  woman  said  to  him:  '*I  thank  you  in  Christ's 
name,  good  grandfather.  Surely  it  was  He  Himself  who  sent 
me  to  your  window.  Otherwise  I  should  have  seen  my  baby 
perish  with  the  cold.  When  I  first  came  out  the  day  was 
warm,  but  now  it  has  begun  to  freeze.  But  He,  Our  Little 
Father,  had  placed  you  in  your  window,  that  you  might  see 
me  in  my  bitter  plight  and  have  compassion  upon  me." 

Avdeitch  smiled  and  said :  ' '  He  did  indeed  place  me  there : 
yet,  my  poor  woman,  it  was  for  a  special  purpose  that  I  was 
looking  out." 

Then  he  told  his  guest,  the  soldier's  wife,  of  his  vision,  and 
how  he  had  heard  a  voice  foretelling  that  to-day  the  Lord  Him- 
self would  come  to  visit  him. 

' '  That  may  very  well  be, ' '  said  the  woman  as  she  rose,  took 
the  jacket,  and  wrapped  her  baby  in  it.  Then  she  saluted  him 
once  more  and  thanked  him. 

''Also,  take  this  in  Christ's  name,"  said  Avdeitch,  and  gave 
her  a  two-grivenka  piece  with  which  to  buy  herself  a  shawl. 
The  woman  crossed  herself,  and  he  likewise.  Then  he  led  her 
to  the  door  and  dismissed  her. 

When  she  had  gone  Avdeitch  ate  a  little  soup,  washed  up  the 
crockery  again,  and  resumed  his  work.  All  the  time,  though, 
he  kept  his  eye  upon  the  window,  and  as  soon  as  ever  a  shadow 
fell  across  it  he  would  look  up  to  see  who  was  passing.  Ac- 
quaintances of  his  came  past,  and  people  whom  he  did  not 
know,  yet  never  anyone  very  particular. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  something.  Opposite  his  window 
there  had  stopped  an  old  pedlar-woman,  with  a  basket  of 
apples.  Only  a  few  of  the  apples,  however,  remained,  so  that 
it  was  clear  that  she  was  almost  sold  out.  Over  her  shoulder 
was  slung  a  sack  of  shavings,  which  she  must  have  gathered 
near  some  new  building  as  she  was  going  home.     Apparently, 


34  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

her  shoulder  had  begun  to  ache  under  their  weight,  and  she 
therefore  wished  to  shift  them  to  the  other  one.  To  do  this, 
she  balanced  her  basket  of  apples  on  the  top  of  a  post,  lowered 
the  sack  to  the  pavement,  and  began  shaking  up  its  contents. 
As  she  was  doing  this,  a  boy  in  a  ragged  cap  appeared  from 
somewhere,  seized  an  apple  from  the  basket,  and  tried  to  make 
off.  But  the  old  woman,  who  had  been  on  her  guard,  managed 
to  turn  and  seize  the  boy  by  the  sleeve,  and  although  he 
struggled  and  tried  to  break  away,  she  clung  to  him  with  both 
hands,  snatched  his  cap  off,  and  finally  grasped  him  by  the 
hair.  Thereupon  the  youngster  began  to  shout  and  abuse  his 
captor.  Avdeitch  did  not  stop  to  make  fast  his  awl,  but  threw 
his  work  down  upon  the  floor,  ran  to  the  door,  and  went  stum- 
bling up  the  steps — losing  his  spectacles  as  he  did  so.  Out 
into  the  street  he  ran,  where  the  old  woman  was  still  clutching 
the  boy  by  the  hair  and  threatening  to  take  him  to  the  police, 
while  the  boy,  for  his  part,  was  struggling  in  the  endeavor 
to  free  himself. 

''I  never  took  it,"  he  was  saying.  ''What  are  you  beating 
me  for?     Let  me  go." 

Avdeitch  tried  to  part  them  as  he  took  the  boy  by  the 
hand  and  said: 

"Let  him  go,  my  good  woman.  Pardon  him  for  Christ's 
sake. ' ' 

''Yes,  I  will  pardon  him,"  she  retorted,  "but  not  until  he 
has  tasted  a  new  birch-rod.  I  mean  to  take  the  young  rascal 
to  the  police." 

But  Avdeitch  still  interceded  for  him. 

"Let  him  go,  my  good  woman,"  he  said.  "He  will  never  do 
it  again.     Let  him  go  for  Christ's  sake." 

The  old  woman  released  the  boy,  who  was  for  making  off 
at  once  had  not  Avdeitch  stopped  him. 

"You  must  beg  the  old  woman's  pardon,"  he  said, 
"and  never  do  such  a  thing  again.  I  saw  you  take  the 
apple. ' ' 

The  boy  burst  out  crying,  and  begged  the  old  woman's 
pardon  as  Avdeitch  commanded. 

"There,   there,"   said  Avdeitch.     "Now   I   will   give  you 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  35 

one.  Here  you  are," — and  he  took  an  apple  from  the  basket 
and  handed  it  to  the  boy.  "I  will  pay  you  for  it,  my  good 
woman, ' '  he  added. 

*'Yes,  but  you  spoil  the  young  rascal  by  doing  that,"  she 
objected.  ''He  ought  to  have  received  a  reward  that  would 
have  made  him  glad  to  stand  for  a  week." 

"Ah,  my  good  dame,  my  good  dame,"  exclaimed  Avdeitch. 
''That  may  be  our  way  of  rewarding,  but  it  is  not  God's.  If 
this  boy  ought  to  have  been  whipped  for  taking  the  apple, 
ought  not  we  also  to  receive  something  for  our  sins  T ' 

The  old  woman  was  silent.  Then  Avdeitch  related  to  her 
the  parable  of  the  master  who  absolved  his  servant  from  the 
great  debt  which  he  owed  him,  whereupon  the  servant  de- 
parted and  took  his  own  debtor  by  the  throat.  The  old  woman 
listened,  and  also  the  boy. 

"God  has  commanded  us  to  pardon  one  another,"  went  on 
Avdeitch,  "  or  fl^e  will  not  pardon  us.  We  ought  to  pardon  all 
men,  and  especially  the  thoughtless." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Yes,  that  may  be  so,"  she  said,  "but  these  young  rascals 
are  so  spoilt  already  ! ' ' 

"Then  it  is  for  us,  their  elders,  to  teach  them  better,"  he 
replied. 

"That  is  what  I  say  myself  at  times,"  rejoined  the  old 
woman.  "I  had  seven  of  them  once  at  home,  but  have  only 
one  daughter  now, ' '  And  she  went  on  to  tell  Avdeitch  where 
she  and  her  daughter  lived,  and  how  they  lived,  and  how  many 
grandchildren  she  had. 

"I  have  only  such  strength  as  you  see,"  she  said,  "yet  I 
work  hard,  for  my  heart  goes  out  to  my  grandchildren — the 
bonny  little  things  that  they  are !  No  children  could  run  to 
meet  me  as  they  do.  Aksintka,  for  instance,  will  go  to  no  one 
else.  'Grandmother,'  she  cries,  'dear  grandmother,  you  are 
tired'  " — and  the  old  woman  became  thoroughly  softened. 
"Everyone  knows  what  boys  are,"  she  added  presently, 
referring  to  the  culprit.     "May  God  go  with  him  !" 

She  was  raising  the  sack  to  her  shoulders  again  when  the 
boy  darted  forward  and  said : 


36  WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 


*'Nay,  let  me  carry  it,  grandmother.  It  will  be  all  on  my 
way  home." 

The  old  woman  nodded  assent,  gave  up  the  sack  to  the 
boy,  and  went  away  with  him  down  the  street.  She  had  quite 
forgotten  to  ask  Avdeitch  for  the  money  for  the  apple.  He 
stood  looking  after  them,  and  observing  how  they  were  talk- 
ing together  as  they  went. 

Having  seen  them  go,  he  returned  to  his  room,  finding  his 
spectacles — unbroken — on  the  steps  as  he  descended  them. 
Once  more  he  took  up  his  awl  and  fell  to  work,  but  had  done 
little  before  he  found  it  difficult  to  distinguish  the  stitches,  and 
the  lamplighter  had  passed  on  his  rounds.  "I  too  must  light 
up,"  he  thought  to  himself.  So  he  trimmed  the  lamp,  hung 
it  up,  and  resumed  his  work.  He  finished  one  boot  completely, 
and  then  turned  it  over  to  look  at  it.  It  was  all  good  work. 
Then  he  laid  aside  his  tools,  swept  up  the  cuttings,  rounded  off 
the  stitches  and  loose  ends,  and  cleaned  his  awl.  Next  he 
lifted  the  lamp  down,  placed  it  on  the  table,  and  took  his 
Testament  from  the  shelf.  He  had  intended  opening  the  book 
at  the  place  which  he  had  marked  last  night  with  a  strip  of 
leather,  but  it  opened  itself  at  another  instead.  The  instant  it 
did  so,  his  vision  of  last  night  came  back  to  his  memory,  and,  as 
instantly,  he  thought  he  heard  a  movement  behind  him  as  of 
someone  moving  towards  him.  He  looked  round  and  saw  in 
the  shadow  of  a  dark  corner  what  appeared  to  be  figures — 
figures  of  persons  standing  there,  yet  could  not  distinguish 
them  clearly.     Then  the  voice  whispered  in  his  ear: 

''Martin,  Martin,  dost  thou  not  know  me?" 

''Who  art  Thou?"  said  Avdeitch. 

"Even  I!"  whispered  the  voice  again.  "Lo,  it  is  I!" — 
and  there  stepped  from  the  dark  corner  Stepanitch.  He 
smiled,  and  then,  like  the  fading  of  a  little  cloud,  was  gone. 

"It  is  I ! "  whispered  the  voice  again — and  there  stepped 
from  the  same  corner  the  woman  with  her  baby.  She  smiled, 
and  the  baby  smiled,  and  they  were  gone. 

"And  it  is  I!"  whispered  the  voice  again — and  there 
stepped  forth  the  old  woman  and  the  boy  with  the  apple. 
They  smiled,  and  were  gone. 


COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI  37 

Joy  filled  the  soul  of  Martin  Avdeitch  as  he  crossed  himself, 
put  on  his  spectacles,  and  set  himself  to  read  the  Testament  at 
the  place  where  it  had  opened.  At  the  top  of  the  page  he 
read : 

"For  I  was  an  hungred,  and  ye  gave  Me  meat:  I  was 
thirsty,  and  ye  gave  Me  drink :  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took 
Me  in." 

And  further  down  the  page  he  read : 

* '  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these 
my  brethren  ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 

Then  Avdeitch  understood  that  the  vision  had  come  true, 
and  that  his  Saviour  had  in  very  truth  visited  him  that  day, 
and  that  he  had  received  Him. 


WOOD-LADIES  ^ 

By  PERCEVAL  GIBBON 

The  pine-trees  of  the  wood  joined  their  branches  into  a 
dome  of  intricate  groinings  over  the  floor  of  ferns  where  the 
children  sat,  sunk  to  the  neck  in  a  foam  of  tender  green.  The 
sunbeams  that  slanted  in  made  shivering  patches  of  gold  about 
them.  Joyce,  the  elder  of  the  pair,  was  trying  to  explain  why 
she  had  wished  to  come  here  from  the  glooms  of  the  lesser  wood 
beyond. 

"I  wasn't  'zactly  frightened,"  she  said.  "I  knew  there 
was  n  't  any  lions  or  robbers,  or  anything  like  that.     But ' ' 

"Tramps?"  suggested  Joan. 

"  No !  You  know  I  don 't  mind  tramps,  Joan.  But  as  we 
was  going  along  under  all  those  dark  bushes  where  it  was  so 
quiet,  I  kept  feeling  as  if  there  was — something — behind  me. 
I  looked  round  and  there  wasn't  anything,  but — well,  it  felt 
as  if  there  was. ' ' 

Joyce's  small  face  was  knit  and  intent  with  the  efforts  to 
convey  her  meaning.  She  was  a  slim  erect  child,  as  near  seven 
years  of  age  as  makes  no  matter,  with  eyes  that  were  going  to 
be  gray,  but  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be  blue.  Joan,  who  was  a 
bare  five,  a  mere  huge  baby,  was  trying  to  root  up  a  fern  that 
grew  between  her  feet. 

*'I  know,"  she  said,  tugging  mightily.  The  fern  gave  sud- 
denly, and  Joan  fell  over  on  her  back,  with  her  stout  legs 
sticking  up  stiffly.  In  this  posture  she  continued  the  conver- 
sation undisturbed.     "I  know,  Joj^     It  was  wood-ladies!" 

"Wood-ladies!"  Joyce  frowned  in  faint  perplexity  as  Joan 
rolled  right  side  up  again.  Wood-ladies  were  dim  inhabitants 
of  the  woods,  being  of  the  order  of  fairies  and  angels  and  even 

1  By  permission  of  the  author.     Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

38 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  39 

vaguer,  for  there  was  nothing  about  them  in  the  story-books. 
Joyce,  who  felt  that  she  was  getting  on  in  years,  was  willing 
to  be  sceptical  about  them,  but  could  not  always  manage  it. 
In  the  nursery,  with  the  hard  clean  linoleum  underfoot  and 
the  barred  window  looking  out  on  the  lawn  and  the  road,  it 
was  easy;  she  occasionally  shocked  Joan,  and  sometimes  her- 
self, by  the  license  of  her  speech  on  such  matters;  but  it  was 
a  different  affair  when  one  came  to  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  and  passed  as  through  a  dream  portal  from  the  sun- 
shine and  frank  sky  to  the  cathedral  shadows  and  great  whis- 
pering aisles  of  the  wood.  There  the  dimness  was  like  the 
shadow  of  a  presence;  as  babies  they  had  been  aware  of  it, 
and  answered  their  own  questions  by  inventing  wood-ladies 
to  float  among  the  trunks  and  people  the  still  green  chambers. 
Now,  neither  of  them  could  remember  how  they  had  first 
learned  of  wood-ladies. 

"Wood-ladies,"  repeated  Joyce,  and  turned  with  a  little 
shiver  to  look  across  the  ferns  to  where  the  pines  ended  and 
the  lesser  wood,  dense  with  undergrowth,  broke  at  their  edge 
like  a  wave  on  a  steep  beach.  It  was  there,  in  a  tunnel  of  a 
path  that  writhed  beneath  overarching  bushes,  that  she  had 
been  troubled  with  the  sense  of  unseen  companions.  Joan, 
her  fat  hands  struggling  with  another  fern,  followed  her 
glance. 

"That  's  where  they  are,"  she  said  casually.  "They  like 
being  in  the  dark." 

"Joan!"  Joyce  spoke  earnestly.  "Say  truly — truly, 
mind! — do  you  think  there  is  wood-ladies  at  all?" 

"  'Course  there  is,"  replied  Joan  cheerfully.  "Fairies  in 
fields  and  angels  in  heaven  and  dragons  in  caves  and  wood- 
ladies  in  woods." 

"But,"  objected  Joyce,  "nobody  ever  sees  them." 

Joan  lifted  her  round  baby  face,  plump,  serene,  bright  with 
innocence,  and  gazed  across  at  the  tangled  trees  beyond  the 
ferns.  She  wore  the  countenance  with  which  she  was  wont 
to  win  games,  and  Joyce  thrilled  nervously  at  her  certainty. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  brown,  seemed  to  seek  expertly ;  then  she 
nodded. 


40  WOOD-LADIES 


<  i  I 


There  's  one  now/'  she  said,  and  fell  to  work  with  her 
fern  again. 

Joyce,  crouching  among  the  broad  green  leaves,  looked 
tensely,  dread  and  curiosity — the  child's  avid  curiosity  for  the 
supernatural — alight  in  her  face.  In  the  wood  a  breath  of 
wind  stirred  the  leaves;  the  shadows  and  the  fretted  lights 
shifted  and  swung ;  all  was  vague  movement  and  change.  Was 
it  a  bough  that  bent  and  sprang  back  or  a  flicker  of  draperies, 
dim  and  green,  shrouding  a  tenuous  form  that  passed  like  a 
smoke-wreath?  She  stared  with  wide  eyes,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  for  an  instant  she  saw  the  figure  turn  and  the  pallor 
of  a  face,  with  a  mist  of  hair  about  it,  sway  toward  her. 
There  was  an  impression  of  eyes,  large  and  tender,  of  an 
infinite  grace  and  fragility,  of  a  coloring  that  merged  into  the 
greens  and  browns  of  the  wood;  and  as  she  drew  her  breath 
it  was  all  no  more.  The  trees,  the  lights  and  shades,  the  stir 
of  branches  were  as  before,  but  something  was  gone  from 
them. 

*'Joan,''  she  cried,  hesitating. 

*'Yes,''  said  Joan,  without  looking  up.     ''What?" 

The  sound  of  words  had  broken  a  spell.  Joyce  was  no 
longer  sure  that  she  had  seen  anything. 

''I  thought,  just  now,  I  could  see  something,"  she  said. 
''But  I  s'pose  I  didn't." 

"I  did,"  remarked  Joan. 

Joyce  crawled  through  the  crisp  ferns  till  she  was  close 
to  Joan,  sitting  solid  and  untroubled  and  busy  upon  the 
ground,  with  broken  stems  and  leaves  all  round  her. 

"Joan,"  she  begged.  "Be  nice.  You  're  trying  to 
frighten  me,  aren't  you?" 

"I  'm  not,"  protested  Joan.  *'I  did  see  a  wood-lady. 
Wood-ladies  does  n  't  hurt  you ;  wood-ladies  are  nice.  You  're 
a  coward,  Joyce." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Joyce,  sighing.  "But  I  won't  go 
into  the  dark  parts  of  the  wood  any  more." 

"Coward,"  repeated  Joan  absently,  but  with  a  certain 
relish. 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  41 

*'You  wouldn't  like  to  go  there  by  yourself/'  cried  Joyce. 
**If  I  wasn't  with  you,  you  'd  be  a  coward  too.  You  know 
you  would." 

She  stopped,  for  Joan  had  swept  her  lap  free  of  debris  and 
was  rising  to  her  feet.  Joan,  for  all  her  plumpness  and  in- 
fantile softness,  had  a  certain  deliberate  dignity  when  she  was 
put  upon  her  mettle.  She  eyed  her  sister  with  a  calm  and 
very  galling  superiority. 

' '  I  'm  going  there  now, ' '  she  answered ;  ' '  all  by  mineself . ' ' 

' '  Go,  then, ' '  retorted  Joyce  angrily. 

Without  a  further  word,  Joan  turned  her  back  and  began 
to  plough  her  way  across  the  ferns  toward  the  dark  wood. 
Joyce,  watching  her,  saw  her  go,  at  first  with  wrath,  for  she 
had  been  stung,  and  then  with  compunction.  The  plump 
baby  was  so  small  in  the  brooding  solemnity  of  the  pines, 
thrusting  indefatigably  along,  buried  to  the  waist  in  ferns. 
Her  sleek  brown  head  had  a  devoted  look;  the  whole  of  her 
seemed  to  go  with  so  sturdy  an  innocence  toward  those 
peopled  and  uncanny  glooms.  Joyce  rose  to  her  knees  to  call 
her  back. 

*'Joan!"  she  cried.  The  baby  turned.  "Joan!  Come 
back;  come  back  an'  be  friends!" 

Joan,  maintaining  her  offing,  replied  only  with  a  gesture. 
It  was  a  gesture  they  had  learned  from  the  boot-and-knife 
boy,  and  they  had  once  been  spanked  for  practising  it  on  the 
piano-tuner.  The  boot-and-knife  boy  called  it  "cocking  a 
snook, ' '  and  it  consisted  in  raising  a  thumb  to  one 's  nose  and 
spreading  the  fingers  out.  It  was  defiance  and  insult  in 
tabloid  form.  Then  she  turned  and  plodded  on.  The  opaque 
wall  of  the  wood  was  before  her  and  over  her,  but  she  knew 
its  breach.  She  ducked  her  head  under  a  droop  of  branches, 
squirmed  through,  was  visible  still  for  some  seconds  as  a  gleam 
of  blue  frock,  and  then  the  ghostly  shadows  received  her  and 
she  was  gone.     The  wood  closed  behind  her  like  a  lid. 

Joyce,  squatting  in  her  place,  blinked  a  little  breathlessly  to 
shift  from  her  senses  an  oppression  of  alarm,  and  settled  down 
to  wait  for  her.    At  least  it  was  true  that  nothing  ever  hap- 


42  WOOD-LADIES 

pened  to  Joan;  even  when  she  fell  into  a  water-butt  she  suf- 
fered no  damage;  and  the  wood  was  a  place  to  which  they 
came  every  day. 

''Besides,"  she  considered,  enumerating  her  resources  of 
comfort;  "besides,  there  can't  be  such  things  as  wood-ladies 
really.'^ 

But  Joan  was  a  long  time  gone.  The  dome  of  pines  took  on 
an  uncanny  stillness;  the  moving  patches  of  sun  seemed 
furtive  and  unnatural ;  the  ferns  swayed  without  noise.  In 
the  midst  of  it,  patient  and  nervous,  sat  Joyce,  watching  al- 
ways that  spot  in  the  bushes  where  a  blue  overall  and  a 
brown  head  had  disappeared.  The  undernote  of  alarm  which 
stirred  her  senses  died  down;  a  child  finds  it  hard  to  spin 
out  a  mood;  she  simply  sat,  half-dreaming  in  the  peace  of 
the  morning,  half-watching  the  wood.  Time  slipped  by  her 
and  presently  there  came  mother,  smiling  and  seeking  through 
the  trees  for  her  babies. 

"  Is  n  't  there  a  clock  inside  you  that  tells  you  when  it  's 
lunch-time?"  asked  mother.  "You  're  ever  so  late.  Where  's 
Joan  ? ' ' 

Joyce  rose  among  the  ferns,  delicate  and  elfin,  with  a  shy 
perplexity  on  her  face.  It  was  difficult  to  speak  even  to 
mother  about  wood-ladies  without  a  pretence  of  scepticism. 

"I  forgot  about  lunch,"  she  said,  taking  the  slim  cool  hand 
which  mother  held  out  to  her.  "Joan  's  in  there."  She 
nodded  at  the  bushes. 

"Is  she?"  said  mother,  and  called  aloud  in  her  singing- 
voice,  that  was  so  clear  to  hear  in  the  spaces  of  the  wood. 
"Joan!     Joan!" 

A  cheeky  bird  answered  with  a  whistle  and  mother  called 
again. 

"She  said/*  explained  Joyce — "she  said  she  saw  a  wood- 
lady  and  then  she  went  in  there  to  show  me  she  wasn't 
afraid." 

"What's  a  wood-lady,  chick?"  asked  mother.  "The 
rascal ! ' '  she  said,  smiling,  when  Joyce  had  explained  as  best 
she  could.     ' '  We  '11  have  to  go  and  look  for  her. ' ' 

They    went    hand    in   hand,    and    mother   showed   herself 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  43 

clever  in  parting  a  path  among  the  bushes.  She  managed 
so  that  no  bough  sprang  back  to  strike  Joyce  and  without 
tearing  or  soiling  her  own  soft  white  dress;  one  could  guess 
that  when  she  had  been  a  little  girl  she,  too,  had  had  a  wood 
to  play  in.  They  cut  down  by  the  Secret  Pond,  where  the 
old  rhododendrons  were,  and  out  to  the  edge  of  the  fields; 
and  when  they  paused  mother  would  lift  her  head  and  call 
again,  and  her  voice  rang  in  the  wood  like  a  bell.  By  the 
pond,  which  was  a  black  water  with  steep  banks,  she  paused 
and  showed  a  serious  face ;  but  there  were  no  marks  of  shoes 
on  its  clay  slopes,  and  she  shook  her  head  and  went  on.  But 
to  all  the  calling  there  was  no  answer,  no  distant  cheery 
bellow  to  guide  them  to  Joan. 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't  play  these  tricks,"  said  mother. 
*'I  don't  like  them  a  bit." 

''I  expect  she's  hiding,"  said  Joyce.  ''There  aren't 
wood-ladies  really,  are  there,  mother?" 

"There  's  nothing  worse  in  these  woods  than  a  rather 
naughty  baby,"  mother  replied.  "We  '11  go  back  by  the 
path  and  call  her  again." 

Joyce  knew  that  the  hand  which  held  hers  tightened  as 
they  went  and  there  was  still  no  answer  to  mother's  calling. 
She  could  not  have  told  what  it  was  that  made  her  suddenly 
breathless;  the  wood  about  her  turned  desolate;  an  oppres- 
sion of  distress  and  bewilderment  burdened  them  both. 
"Joan,  Joan!"  called  mother  in  her  strong  beautiful  con- 
tralto, swelling  the  word  forth  in  powerful  music,  and  when 
she  ceased  the  silence  was  like  a  taunt.  It  was  not  as  if 
Joan  were  there  and  failed  to  answer ;  it  was  as  if  there  were 
no  longer  any  Joan  anywhere.  They  came  at  last  to  the 
space  of  sparse  trees  which  bordered  their  garden. 

"We  mustn't  be  silly  about  this,"  said  mother,  speaking 
as  much  to  herself  as  to  Joyce.     "Nothing  can  have  happened 
to  her.     And  you  must  have  lunch,  chick." 
Without  waiting  for  Joan?"  asked  Joyce. 
Yes.     The  gardener  and  the  boot-boy  must  look  for  Joan," 
said  mother,  opening  the  gate. 

The  dining-room  looked  very  secure  and  home-like,  with  its 


44  WOOD-LADIES 

big  window  and  its  cheerful  table  spread  for  lunch.  Joyce's 
place  faced  the  window,  so  that  she  could  see  the  lawn  and 
the  hedge  bounding  the  kitchen  garden;  and  when  mother 
had  served  her  with  food,  she  was  left  alone  to  eat  it.  Pres- 
ently the  gardener  and  the  boot-boy  passed  the  window,  each 
carrying  a  hedge-stake  and  looking  warlike.  There  reached 
her  a  murmur  of  voices;  the  gardener  was  mumbling  some- 
thing about  tramps. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  mother's  voice. 

Mother  came  in  presently  and  sat  down,  but  did  not  eat 
anything.     Joyce  asked  her  why. 

' '  Oh,  I  shall  have  some  lunch  when  Joan  comes, ' '  answered 
mother.  ''I  sha'n't  be  hungry  till  then.  Will  you  have 
some  more,  my  pet?" 

When  Joyce  had  finished,  they  went  out  again  to  the  wood  to 
meet  Joan  when  she  was  brought  back  in  custody.  Mother 
walked  quite  slowly,  looking  all  the  time  as  if  she  would  like 
to  run.  Joyce  held  her  hand  and  sometimes  glanced  up  at 
her  face,  so  full  of  wonder  and  a  sort  of  resentful  doubt,  as 
though  circumstances  were  playing  an  unmannerly  trick  on 
her.     At  the  gate  they  came  across  the  boot-boy. 

' '  I  bin  all  acrost  that  way, ' '  said  the  boot-boy,  pointing  with 
his  stumpy  black  forefinger,  ''and  then  acrost  that  way,  an' 
Mister  Jenks" — Jenks  was  the  gardener — *'  'e've  gone  about 
in  rings,  'e  'ave.  And  there  ain't  sign  nor  token,  mum — 
not  a  sign  there  ain't." 

From  beyond  him  sounded  the  voice  of  the  gardener, 
thrashing  among  the  trees.  "Miss  Joan!"  he  roared.  "Hi! 
Miss  Jo-an!  You  're  a-frightin'  your  ma  proper.  Where 
are  ye,  then?" 

"She  must  be  hiding,"  said  mother.  "You  must  go  on 
looking,  Walter.     You  must  go  on  looking  till  you  find  her." 

"Yes,  'm,"  said  Walter.  "If  she  's  in  there,  us  'II  find 
her,  soon  or  late." 

He  ran  off,  and  presently  his  voice  was  joined  to  Jenks 's, 
calling  Joan — calling,  calling,  and  getting  no  answer. 

Mother  took  Joyce's  hand  again. 

"Come,"  she  said.     "We  '11  walk  round  by  the  path,  and 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  45 

you  must  tell  me  again  how  it  all  happened.  Did  you  really 
see  something  when  Joan  told  you  to  look  ? ' ' 

' '  I  expect  I  did  n  't, "  replied  Joyce  dolefully.  ' '  But  Joan  's 
always  saying  there  's  a  fairy  or  something  in  the  shadows 
and  I  always  think  I  see  them  for  a  moment. ' ' 

"It  could  n't  have  been  a  live  woman — or  a  man — that  you 
saw?" 

"Oh,  no!"  Joyce  was  positive  of  that.  Mother's  hand 
tightened  on  hers  understandingly  and  they  went  on  in  silence 
till  they  met  Jenks. 

Jenks  was  an  oldish  man  with  bushy  gray  whiskers,  who 
never  wore  a  coat,  and  now  he  was  wet  to  the  loins  with  mud 
and  water. 

"That  there  ol'  pond,"  he  explained.  *'I  've  been  an' 
took  a  look  at  her.  Tromped  through  her  proper,  I  did,  an' 
I  '11  go  bail  there  ain't  so  much  as  a  dead  cat  in  all  the  mud 
of  her.     Thish  yer  's  a  mistry,  mum,  an'  no  mistake." 

Mother  stared  at  him.  "I  can't  bear  this,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "You  must  go  on  searching,  Jenks,  and  Walter 
must  go  on  his  bicycle  to  the  police-station  at  once.  Call 
him,  please!" 

"Walter!"  roared  Jenks  obediently. 

"Co  .ing!"  answered  the  boot-boy  and  burst  forth  from 
the  bushes.  In  swift,  clear  words,  which  no  stupidity  could 
mistake  or  forget,  mother  gave  him  his  orders,  spoken  in  a 
tone  that  meant  urgency.     Walter  went  flying  to  execute  them. 

"Oh,  mother,  where  do  you  think  Joan  can  be?"  begged 
Joyce  when  Jenks  had  gone  off  to  resume  his  search. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  mother.     "It  's  all  so  absurd." 

"If  there  tvas  wood-ladies,  they  wouldn't  hurt  a  baby  like 
Joan,"  suggested  Joyce, 

"Oh,  who  could  hurt  her!"  cried  mother,  and  fell  to  call- 
ing again.  Her  voice,  of  w^iich  each  accent  was  music,  al- 
ternated with  the  harsh  roars  of  Jenks. 

Walter  on  his  bicycle  must  have  hurried,  in  spite  of  his 
permanently  punctured  front  tire,  for  it  was  a  very  short 
time  before  bells  rang  in  the  steep  lane  from  the  road  and 
Superintendent  Farrow  himself  wheeled  his  machine  in  at 


46  WOOD-LADIES 

the  gate,  massive  and  self-possessed,  a  blue-clad  minister  of 
comfort.  He  heard  mother's  tale,  which  embodied  that  of 
Joyce,  with  a  half-smile  lurking  in  his  mustache  and  his  big 
chin  creased  back  against  his  collar.  Then  he  nodded,  exactly 
as  if  he  saw  through  the  whole  business  and  could  find  Joan 
in  a  minute  or  two,  and  propped  his  bicycle  against  the 
fence. 

''I  understand  then,"  he  said,  "that  the  little  girl's  been 
missing  for  rather  more  than  an  hour.  In  that  case,  she  can't 
have  got  far.  I  sent  a  couple  o'  constables  round  the  roads 
be'ind  the  wood  before  I  started,  an'  now  I  '11  just  'ave  a 
look  through  the  wood  myself." 

"Thank  you,"  said  mother.  "I  don't  know  why  I  'm  so 
nervous,  but " 

"Very  natural,  ma'am,"  said  the  big  superintendent  com- 
fortingly, and  went  with  them  to  the  wood. 

It  was  rather  thrilling  to  go  with  him  and  watch  him. 
Joyce  and  mother  had  to  show  him  the  place  from  which  Joan 
had  started  and  the  spot  at  which  she  had  disappeared.  He 
looked  at  them  hard,  frowning  a  little  and  nodding  to  himself, 
and  went  stalking  mightily  among  the  ferns.  "It  was 
'ere  she  went  ? "  he  inquired,  as  he  reached  the  dark  path,  and 
being  assured  that  it  was,  he  thrust  in  and  commenced  his 
search.  The  pond  seemed  to  give  him  ideas,  which  old  Jenks 
disposed  of,  and  he  marched  on  till  he  came  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  fields,  where  the  hay  was  yet  uncut  Joan  could  not 
have  crossed  them  without  leaving  a  track  in  the  tall  grass  as 
clear  as  a  cart-rut. 

"We  'ave  to  consider  the  possibilities  of  the  matter,"  said 
the  superintendent.  "Assumin'  that  the  wood  'as  been  thor- 
oughly searched,  where  did  she  get  out  of  it?" 

* '  Searched  ! ' '  growled  old  Jenks.  ' '  There  ain  't  a  inch  as 
I  'ave  n't  searched  an'  seen — not  a  inch." 

"The  kidnappin'  the'ry,"  went  on  the  superintendent,  ig- 
noring him  and  turning  to  mother,  "I  don't  incline  to. 
'Owever,  we  must  go  to  work  in  order,  an'  I  '11  'ave  my  men 
up  'ere  and  make  sure  of  the  wood.  All  gypsies  an'  tramps 
will  be  stopped  and  interrogated.     I  don't  think  there  's  no 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  4? 

cause  for  you  to  feel  anxious,  ma'am.  I  'ope  to  'ave  some 
news  for  you  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon. ' ' 

They  watched  him  free-wheel  down  the  lane  and  shoot 
round  the  corner. 

''Oh,  dear,"  said  mother  then;  "why  doesn't  the  baby 
come?     I  wish  daddy  weren't  away." 

Now  that  the  police  had  entered  the  affair,  Joyce  felt  that 
there  remained  nothing  to  be  done.  Uniformed  authority  was 
in  charge  of  events ;  it  could  not  fail  to  find  Joan.  She  had  a 
vision  of  the  police  at  work,  stopping  straggling  families  of 
tramps  on  distant  by-roads,  looking  into  the  contents  of  their 
dreadful  bundles,  flashing  the  official  bull's-eye  lantern  into 
the  mysterious  interior  of  gypsy  caravans,  and  making  ragged 
men  and  slatternly  women  give  an  account  of  their  wander- 
ings. No  limits  to  which  they  would  not  go ;  how  could 
they  fain  She  wished  their  success  seemed  as  inevitable 
to  her  mother  as  it  did  to  her. 

"They  're  sure  to  bring  her  back,  mother,"  she  repeated. 

"Oh,  chick,"  said  mother,  "I  keep  telling  myself  so. 
But  I  wish — I  wish " 

"What,  mother?" 

"I  wish,"  said  mother,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  speech,  as  if 
she  were  confessing  something  that  troubled  her — "I  wish 
you  hadn't  seen  that  wood-lady." 

The  tall  young  constables  and  the  plump  fatherly  sergeant 
annoyed  old  Jenks  by  searching  the  wood  as  though  he  had 
done  nothing.  It  was  a  real  search  this  time.  Each  of 
them  took  a  part  of  the  ground  and  went  over  it  as  though 
he  were  looking  for  a  needle  which  had  been  lost,  and  no  less 
than  three  of  them  trod  every  inch  of  the  bottom  of  the 
Secret  Pond.  They  took  shovels  and  opened  up  an  old  fox's 
earth ;  and  a  sad-looking  man  in  shabby  plain  clothes  arrived 
and  walked  about  smoking  a  pipe — a  detective!  Up  from 
the  village,  too,  came  the  big  young  curate  and  the  squire's 
two  sons,  civil  and  sympathetic  and  eager  to  be  helpful ;  they 
all  thought  it  natural  that  mother  should  be  anxious,  but 
refused  to  credit  for  an  instant  that  anything  could  have 
happened  to  Joan. 


48  WOOD-LADIES 

"That  baby!"  urged  the  curate.  ''Why,  my  dear  lady, 
Joan  is  better  known  hereabouts  than  King  George  himself. 
No  one  could  take  her  a  mile  without  having  to  answer  ques- 
tions. I  don 't  know  what  's  keeping  her,  but  you  may  be  sure 
she  's  all  right." 

"  'Course  she  is,"  chorused  the  others,  swinging  their  sticks 
light-heartedly.     "  'Course  she  's  all  right." 

"Get  her  for  me,  then,"  said  mother.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  silly  and  you  're  awfully  good.  But  I  must  have  her; 
I  must  have  her.     I — I  want  her." 

The  squire 's  sons  turned  as  if  on  an  order  and  went  toward 
the  wood.  The  curate  lingered  a  moment.  He  was  a  huge 
youth,  an  athlete  and  a  gentleman,  and  his  hard,  clean- 
shaven face  could  be  kind  and  serious. 

"We  're  sure  to  get  her,"  he  said,  in  lower  tones.  "And 
you  must  help  us  with  your  faith  and  courage.     Can  you?" 

Mother's  hand  tightened  on  that  of  Joyce. 

' '  We  are  doing  our  best, ' '  she  said,  and  smiled — she  smiled ! 
The  curate  nodded  and  went  his  way  to  the  wood. 

A  little  later  in  the  afternoon  came  Colonel  Warden,  the 
lord  and  master  of  all  the  police  in  the  county,  a  gay,  trim  sol- 
dier whom  the  children  knew  and  liked.  With  him,  in  his  big 
automobile,  were  more  policemen  and  a  pair  of  queer  liver- 
colored  dogs,  all  baggy  skin  and  bleary  eyes — blood-hounds ! 
Joyce  felt  that  this  really  must  settle  it.  Actual  living  blood- 
hounds would  be  more  than  a  match  for  Joan.  Colonel  War- 
den was  sure  of  it  too. 

"Saves  time,"  he  was  telling  mother,  in  his  high  snappy 
voice.  "Shows  us  which  way  she  's  gone,  you  know.  Best 
hounds  in  the  country,  these  two ;  never  known  'cdi  fail  yet. 

The  dogs  were  limp  and  quiet  as  he  led  them  through  the 
wood,  strange  ungainly  mechanisms  which  a  whiff  of  a  scent 
could  set  in  motion.  A  pinafore  which  Joan  had  worn  at 
breakfast  was  served  to  them  for  an  indication  of  the  work 
they  had  to  do;  they  snuffed  at  it  languidly  for  some  seconds. 
Then  the  colonel  unleashed  them. 

They  smelled  round  and  about  like  any  other  dogs  for  a 
while,  till  one  of  them  lifted  his  great  head  and  uttered  a  long 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  49 

moaning  cry.  Then,  noses  down,  the  men  running  behind 
them,  they  set  off  across  the  ferns.  Mother,  still  holding 
Joyce's  hand,  followed.  The  hounds  made  a  straight  line  for 
the  wood  at  the  point  at  which  Joan  had  entered  it,  slid  in  like 
frogs  into  water,  while  the  men  dodged  and  crashed  after 
them.  Joyce  and  mother  came  up  with  them  at  a  place  where 
the  bushes  stood  back,  enclosing  a  little  quiet  space  of  turf 
that  lay  open  to  the  sky.  The  hounds  were  here,  one  lying 
down  and  scratching  himself,  the  other  nosing  casually  and 
clearly  without  interest  about  him. 

*'Dash  it  all,"  the  colonel  was  saying;  ''she  can't — she 
simply  can't  have  been  kidnapped  in  a  balloon." 

They  tried  the  hounds  again  and  again,  always  with  the 
same  result.  They  ran  their  line  to  the  same  spot  unhesitat- 
ingly, and  then  gave  up  as  though  the  scent  went  no  further. 
Nothing  could  induce  them  to  hunt  beyond  it. 

''I  can't  understand  this,"  said  Colonel  Warden,  dragging 
at  his  mustache.  ' '  This  is  queer. ' '  He  stood  glancing  around 
him  as  though  the  shrubs  and  trees  had  suddenly  become 
enemies. 

The  search  was  still  going  on  when  the  time  came  for  Joyce 
to  go  to  bed.  It  had  spread  from  the  wood  across  the  fields, 
reinforced  by  scores  of  sturdy  volunteers,  and  automobiles 
had  puffed  away  to  thread  the  mesh  of  little  lanes  that  cov- 
ered the  country-side.  Joyce  found  it  all  terribly  exciting. 
Fear  for  Joan  she  felt  not  at  all. 

"I  know  inside  myself,"  she  told  mother,  ''right  down 
deep  in  the  middle  of  me,  that  Joan  's  all  right." 

"Bless  you,  my  chick,"  said  poor  mother.  "I  wish  I 
could  feel  like  that.     Go  to  bed  now,  like  a  good  girl." 

There  was  discomfort  in  the  sight  of  Joan's  railed  cot 
standing  empty  in  the  night  nursery,  but  Joyce  was  tired  and 
had  scarcely  begun  to  be  touched  by  it  before  she  was  asleep. 
She  had  a  notion  that  during  the  night  mother  came  in 
more  than  once,  and  she  had  a  vague  dream,  too,  all  about 
Joan  and  wood-ladies,  of  which  she  could  not  remember 
much  when  she  woke  up.  Joan  was  always  dressed  first  in 
the  morning,  being  the  younger  of  the  pair,  but  now  there  was 


50  WOOD-LADIES 

no  Joan  and  nurse  was  very  gentle  with  Joyce  and  looked 
tired  and  as  if  she  had  been  crying. 

Mother  was  not  to  be  seen  that  morning;  she  had  been  up 
all  night,  "till  she  broke  down,  poor  thing,"  said  nurse,  and 
Joyce  was  bidden  to  amuse  herself  quietly  in  the  nursery. 
But  mother  was  about  again  at  lunch-time  when  Joyce  went 
down  to  the  dining-room.  She  was  very  pale  and  her  eyes 
looked  black  and  deep,  and  somehow  she  seemed  suddenly 
smaller  and  younger,  more  nearly  Joyce's  age,  than  ever  be- 
fore. They  kissed  each  other  and  the  child  would  have  tried 
to  comfort. 

"No,"  said  mother,  shaking  her  head.  "No,  dear.  Don't 
let  's  be  sorry  for  each  other  yet.  It  would  be  like  giving 
up  hope.     And  we  haven't  done  that,  have  we?" 

'^I  haven't,"  said  Joyce.     "I  know  it  's  all  right." 

After  lunch — again  mother  said  she  would  n't  be  hungry  till 
Joan  came  home — they  went  out  together.  There  were  no 
searches  now  in  the  wood  and  the  garden  was  empty ;  the  police 
had  left  no  inch  unscanned  and  they  were  away,  combing 
the  country-side  and  spreading  terror  among  the  tramps. 
The  sun  was  strong  upon  the  lawn  and  the  smell  of  the  roses 
was  heavy  on  the  air;  across  the  hedge  the  land  rolled  away 
to  clear  perspectives  of  peace  and  beauty. 

"Let  's  walk  up  and  down,"  suggested  mother.  *' Any- 
thing 's  better  than  sitting  still.  And  don't  talk,  chick — not 
just  now." 

They  paced  the  length  of  the  lawn,  from  the  cedar  to  the 
gate  which  led  to  the  wood,  perhaps  a  dozen  times,  hand  in 
hand  and  in  silence.  It  was  while  their  backs  were  turned 
to  the  wood  that  they  heard  the  gate  click,  and  faced  about  to 
see  who  was  coming.  A  blue-sleeved  arm  thrust  the  gate 
open  and  there  advanced  into  the  sunlight,  coming  forth  from 
the  shadow  as  from  a  doorway — Joan !  Her  round  baby  face, 
with  the  sleek  brown  hair  over  it,  the  massive  infantile  body, 
the  sturdy  bare  legs,  confronted  them  serenely.  Mother  ut- 
tered a  deep  sigh — it  sounded  like  that — and  in  a  moment 
she  was  kneeling  on  the  ground  with  her  arms  round  the 
baby." 


PERCEVAL  GIBBON  51 


<  ( 


Joan,  Joan,"  she  said^  over  and  over  again.     '*My  little, 
little  baby ! " 

Joan  struggled  in  her  embrace  till  she  got  an  arm  free  and 
then  rubbed  her  eyes  drowsily. 

' '  Hallo ! "  she  said. 

"But  where  have  you  been?"  cried  mother.  ''Baby-girl, 
where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

Joan  made  a  motion  of  her  head  and  her  free  arm  toward 
the  wood,  the  wood  which  had  been  searched  a  dozen  times 
over  like   a  pocket.     "In   there,"   she   answered   carelessly. 

Wiv  the  wood-ladies.     I  'm  hungry  ! ' ' 
My  darling!"  said  mother,  and  picked  her  up  and  car- 
ried her  into  the  house. 

In  the  dining-room,  with  mother  at  her  side  and  Joyce 
opposite  to  her,  Joan  fell  to  her  food  in  her  customary  work- 
man-like fashion,  and  between  helpings  answered  questions 
in  a  fashion  which  only  served  to  darken  the  mystery  of  her 
absence. 

"But  there  aren't  any  wood-ladies  really,  darling,"  re- 
monstrated mother. 

"There  is,"  said  Joan.  "There  's  lots.  They  wanted  to 
keep  me  but  I  wouldn't  stay.  So  I  comed  home,  'cause  I 
was  hungry." 

"But,**  began  mother,  "where  did  they  take  you  to?"  she 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Joan.  "The  one  what  I  went  to 
speak  to  gave  me  her  hand  and  tooked  me  to  where  there 
was  more  of  them.  It  was  a  place  in  the  wood  wiv  grass  to 
sit  on  and  bushes  all  round,  and  they  gave  me  dead  flowers  to 
play  wiv.     Howwid  old  dead  flowers ! ' ' 

"  Yes  ? "  said  mother.     ' '  What  else  ? ' ' 

There   was   anuvver   little    girl   there,"   went   on   Joan.         1 
Not  a  wood-lady,  but  a  girl  like  me,  what  they  'd  tooked 
from  somewhere.     She  was  wearing  a  greeny  sort  of  dress  like        \ 
they  was,  and  they  wanted  me  to  put  one  on  too.     But  I         i 
wouldn't."  ! 

Why  would  n  't  you  ? ' '  asked  Joyce. 
Cause  I  didi^'t  want  to  be  a  wood-lady,"  replied  Joan. 


( < 


(i    u 


52  WOOD-LADIES     - 

''Listen  to  me,  darling,"  said  mother.  "Didn't  these 
people  whom  you  call  wood-ladies  take  you  away  out  of  the 
wood?  We  searched  the  whole  wood,  you  know,  and  you 
weren't  there  at  all." 

''I  was,"  said  Joan.  ''I  was  there  all  the  time  an'  I 
heard  Walter  an'  Jenks  calling.  I  cocked  a  snook  at  them 
an'  the  wood-ladies  laughed  like  leaves  rustling." 

**But  where  did  you  sleep  last  night?" 

*'I  didn't  sleep,"  said  Joan,  grasping  her  spoon  anew. 
**I  'se  very  sleepy  now." 

She  was  asleep  as  soon  as  they  laid  her  in  bed,  and  mother 
and  Joyce  looked  at  each  other  across  her  cot,  above  her  rosy 
and  unconscious  face. 

''God  help  us,"  said  mother,  in  a  whisper.  "What  is  the 
truth  of  this?" 

There  was  never  any  answer,  any  hint  of  a  solution,  save 
Joan's.  And  she,  as  soon  as  she  discovered  that  her  experi- 
ences amounted  to  an  adventure,  began  to  embroider  them, 
and  now  she  does  not  even  know  herself.  She  has  reached 
the  age  of  seven,  and  it  is  long  since  she  has  believed  in  any- 
thing so  childish  as  wood-ladies. 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP^ 

By  RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 

There  were  four  rails  around  the  ship's  sides,  the  three 
lower  ones  of  iron  and  the  one  on  top  of  wood,  and  as  he 
looked  between  them  from  the  canvas  cot  he  recognized  them 
as  the  prison-bars  which  held  him  in.  Outside  his  prison  lay 
a  stretch  of  blinding  blue  water  which  ended  in  a  line  of 
breakers  and  a  yellow  coast  with  ragged  palms.  Beyond  that 
again  rose  a  range  of  mountain-peaks,  and,  stuck  upon  the 
loftiest  peak  of  all,  a  tiny  block-house.  It  rested  on  the  brow 
of  the  mountain  against  the  naked  sky  as  impudently  as  a 
cracker-box  set  upon  the  dome  of  a  great  cathedral. 

As  the  transport  rode  on  her  anchor-chains,  the  iron  bars 
around  her  sides  rose  and  sank  and  divided  the  landscape 
with  parallel  lines.  From  his  cot  the  officer  followed  this 
phenomenon  with  severe,  painstaking  interest.  Sometimes  the 
wooden  rail  swept  up  to  the  very  block-house  itself,  and  for 
a  second  of  time  blotted  it  from  sight.  And  again  it  sank  to 
the  level  of  the  line  of  breakers,  and  wiped  them  out  of  the 
picture  as  though  they  were  a  line  of  chalk. 

The  soldier  on  the  cot  promised  himself  that  the  next  swell 
of  the  sea  would  send  the  lowest  rail  climbing  to  the  very  top 
of  the  palm-trees  or,  even  higher,  to  the  base  of  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  when  it  failed  to  reach  even  the  palm-trees  he  felt 
a  distinct  sense  of  ill  use,  of  having  been  wronged  by  some 
one.  There  was  no  other  reason  for  submitting  to  this  ex- 
istence save  these  tricks  upon  the  wearisome,  glaring  land- 
scape; and  now,  whoever  it  was  who  was  working  them  did 
not  seem  to  be  making  this  effort  to  entertain  him  with  any 
heartiness. 

1  From  The  Lion  and  the  Unicom.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons. 

53 


54  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

It  was  most  cruel.  Indeed,  he  decided  hotly,  it  was  not  to 
be  endured;  he  would  bear  it  no  longer,  he  would  make  his 
escape.  But  he  knew  that  this  move,  which  could  be  con- 
ceived in  a  moment's  desperation,  could  only  be  carried  to 
success  with  great  strategy,  secrecy,  and  careful  cunning. 
So  he  fell  back  upon  his  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  though 
he  were  asleep,  and  then  opening  them  again,  turned  cau- 
tiously, and  spied  upon  his  keeper.  As  usual,  his  keeper  sat 
at  the  foot  of  the  cot  turning  the  pages  of  a  huge  paper  filled 
with  pictures  of  the  war  printed  in  daubs  of  tawdry  colors. 
His  keeper  was  a  hard-faced  boy  without  human  pity  or 
consideration,  a  very  devil  of  obstinacy  and  fiendish  cruelty. 
To  make  it  worse,  the  fiend  was  a  person  without  a  collar,  in  a 
suit  of  soiled  khaki,  with  a  curious  red  cross  bound  by  a 
safety-pin  to  his  left  arm.  He  was  intent  upon  the  paper  in 
his  hands ;  he  was  holding  it  between  his  eyes  and  his  prisoner. 
His  vigilance  had  relaxed,  and  the  moment  seemed  propitious. 
With  a  sudden  plunge  of  arms  and  legs,  the  prisoner  swept 
the  bed-sheet  from  him,  and  sprang  at  the  wooden  rail  and 
grasped  the  iron  stanchion  beside  it.  He  had  his  knee  pressed 
against  the  top  bar  and  his  bare  toes  on  the  iron  rail  beneath 
it.  Below  him  the  blue  water  waited  for  him.  It  was  cool 
and  dark  and  gentle  and  deep.  It  would  certainly  put  out 
the  fire  in  his  bones,  he  thought ;  it  might  even  shut  out  the 
glare  of  the  sun  which  scorched  his  eyeballs. 

But  as  he  balanced  for  the  leap,  a  swift  weakness  and 
nausea  swept  over  him,  a  weight  seized  upon  his  body  and 
limbs.  He  could  not  lift  the  lower  foot  from  the  iron  rail, 
and  he  swayed  dizzily  and  trembled.  He  trembled.  He  who 
had  raced  his  men  and  beaten  them  up  the  hot  hill  to  the 
trenches  of  San  Juan.  But  now  he  was  a  baby  in  the  hands 
of  a  giant,  who  caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  with  an  iron  arm 
clasped  him  around  his  waist  and  pulled  him  down,  and 
shouted,  brutally,  ''Help,  some  of  youse,  quick!  he  's  at  it 
again.     I  can't  hold  him." 

More  giants  grasped  him  by  the  arms  and  by  the  legs. 
One  of  them  took  the  hand  that  clung  to  the  stanchion  in 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  55 


both  of  his,  and  pulled  back  the  fingers  one  by  one,  saymg, 
''Easy  now,  Lieutenant — easy." 

The  ragged  palms  and  the  sea  and  block-house  were  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  black  fog,  and  his  body  touched  the  canvas  cot 
again  with  a  sense  of  home-coming  and  relief  and  rest.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  have  cared  to  escape  from  it.  He 
found  it  so  good  to  be  back  again  that  for  a  long  time  he 
wept  quite  happily,  until  the  fiery  pillow  was  moist  and 
cool. 

The  world  outside  of  the  iron  bars  was  like  a  scene  in  a 
theater  set  for  some  great  event,  but  the  actors  were  never 
ready.  He  remembered  confusedly  a  play  he  had  once  wit- 
nessed before  that  same  .scene.  Indeed,  he  believed  he  had 
played  some  small  part  in  it ;  but  he  remembered  it  dimly,  and 
all  trace  of  the  men  Avho  had  appeared  with  him  in  it  w^as 
gone.  He  had  reasoned  it  out  that  they  were  up  there  be- 
hind the  range  of  mountains,  because  great  heavy  wagons  and 
ambulances  and  cannon  were  emptied  from  the  ships  at  the 
wharf  above  and  were  drawn  away  in  long  lines  behind  the 
ragged  palms,  moving  always  toward  the  passes  between  the 
peaks.  At  times  he  was  disturbed  by  the  thought  that  he 
should  be  up  and  after  them,  that  some  tradition  of  duty 
made  his  presence  with  them  imperative.  There  was  much 
to  be  done  back  of  the  mountains.  Some  event  of  momentous 
import  was  being  carried  forward  there,  in  which  he  held  a 
part ;  but  the  doubt  soon  passed  from  him,  and  he  was  content 
to  lie  and  watch  the  iron  bars  rising  and  falling  between  the 
block-house  and  the  w^hite  surf. 

If  they  had  been  only  humanely  kind,  his  lot  would  have 
been  bearable,  but  they  starved  him  and  held  him  down  when 
he  wished  to  rise ;  and  they  would  not  put  out  the  fire  in  the 
pillow,  which  they  might  easily  have  done  by  the  simple  ex- 
pedient of  throwing  it  over  the  ship's  side  into  the  sea.  He 
himself  had  done  this  twice,  but  the  keeper  had  immediatelj^ 
brought  a  fresh  pillow  already  heated  for  the  torture  and 
forced  it  under  his  head. 

His  pleasures  were  very  simple,  and  so  few  he  could  not 


56  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

understand  why  they  robbed  him  of  them  so  jealously.  One 
was  to  watch  a  green  cluster  of  bananas  that  hung  above  him 
from  the  awning,  twirling  on  a  string.  He  could  count  as 
many  of  them  as  five  before  the  bunch  turned  and  swung 
lazily  back  again,  when  he  could  count  as  high  as  twelve; 
sometimes  when  the  ship  rolled  heavily  he  could  count  to 
twenty.  It  was  a  most  fascinating  game,  and  contented  him 
for  many  hours.  But  when  they  found  this  out  they  sent 
for  the  cook  to  come  and  cut  them  down,  and  the  cook  carried 
them  away  to  his  galley. 

Then,  one  day,  a  man  came  out  from  the  shore,  swimming 
through  the  blue  water  with  great  splashes.  He  was  a  most 
charming  man,  who  spluttered  and  dove  and  twisted  and  lay 
on  his  back  and  kicked  his  legs  in  an  excess  of  content  and 
delight.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  watch  him;  not  for  days 
had  anything  so  amusing  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the 
prison-bars.  But  as  soon  as  the  keeper  saw  that  the  man  in 
the  water  was  amusing  his  prisoner,  he  leaned  over  the  ship's 
side  and  shouted,  ' '  Sa-ay,  you,  don 't  you  know  there  's  sharks 
in  there?" 

And  the  swimming  man  raced  back  to  the  shore  like  a 
porpoise  with  great  lashing  of  the  water,  and  ran  up  the 
beach  half-way  to  the  palms  before  he  was  satisfied  to  stop. 
Then  the  prisoner  wept  again.  It  was  so  disappointing. 
Life  was  robbed  of  everything  now.  He  remembered  that 
in  a  previous  existence  soldiers  who  cried  were  laughed  at 
and  mocked.  But  that  was  so  far  away  and  it  was  such  an 
absurd  superstition  that  he  had  no  patience  with  it.  For 
what  could  be  more  comforting  to  a  man  when  he  is  treated 
cruelly  than  to  cry.  It  was  so  obvious  an  exercise,  and  when 
one  is  so  feeble  that  one  cannot  vault  a  four-railed  barrier 
it  is  something  to  feel  that  at  least  one  is  strong  enough  to 
cry. 

He  escaped  occasionally,  traversing  space  with  marvellous 
rapidity  and  to  great  distances,  but  never  to  any  successful 
purpose;  and  his  flight  inevitably  ended  in  ignominious  re- 
capture and  a  sudden  awakening  in  bed.  At  these  moments 
the  familiar  and  hated  palms,  the  peaks,  and  the  block-house 


RICHAEB  HARDING  DAVIS  57 

were  more  hideous  in  their  reality  than  the  most  terrifying 
of  his  nightmares. 

These  excursions  afield  were  always  predatory ;  he  went 
forth  always  to  seek  food.  With  all  the  beautiful  world  from 
which  to  elect  and  choose,  he  sought  out  only  those  places 
where  eating  was  studied  and  elevated  to  an  art.  These 
visits  were  much  more  vivid  in  their  detail  than  any  he  had 
ever  before  made  to  these  same  resorts.  They  invariably  be- 
gan in  a  carriage,  which  carried  him  swiftly  over  smooth 
asphalt.  One  route  brought  him  across  a  great  and  beautiful 
square,  radiating  with  rows  and  rows  of  flickering  lights; 
two  fountains  splashed  in  the  center  of  the  square,  and  six 
women  of  stone  guarded  its  approaches.  One  of  the  w^omen 
was  hung  with  wreaths  of  mourning.  Ahead  of  him  the  late 
twilight  darkened  behind  a  great  arch,  which  seemed  to  rise 
on  the  horizon  of  the  world,  a  great  window  into  the  heavens 
beyond.  At  either  side  strings  of  white  and  colored  globes 
hung  among  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of  music  came  joyfully 
from  theaters  in  the  open  air.  He  knew  the  restaurant  under 
the  trees  to  which  he  was  now  hastening,  and  the  fountain 
beside  it,  and  the  very  sparrows  balancing  on  the  fountain's 
edge;  he  knew  every  waiter  at  each  of  the  tables,  he  felt 
again  the  gravel  crunching  under  his  feet,  he  saw  the  maitre 
d'hotel  coming  forward  smiling  to  receive  his  command,  and 
the  waiter  in  the  green  apron  bowing  at  his  elbow,  deferential 
and  important,  presenting  the  list  of  wines.  But  his  adven- 
ture never  passed  that  point,  for  he  was  captured  again  and 
once  more  bound  to  his  cot  with  a  close  burning  sheet. 

Or  else,  he  drove  more  sedately  through  the  London  streets 
in  the  late  evening  twilight,  leaning  expectantly  across  the 
doors  of  the  hansom  and  pulling  carefully  at  his  white  gloves. 
Other  hansoms  flashed  past  him,  the  occupant  of  each  with 
his  mind  fixed  on  one  idea — dinner.  He  was  one  of  a  million 
of  people  who  were  about  to  dine,  or  who  had  dined,  or  who 
were  deep  in  dining.  He  was  so  famished,  so  weak  for  food 
of  any  quality,  that  the  galloping  horse  in  the  hansom  seemed 
to  crawl.  The  lights  of  the  Embankment  passed  like  the 
lamps  of  a  railroad  station  as  seen  from  the  window  of  an 


58  ON  THE  FEVER  iSHlP 

express ;  and  while  his  mind  was  still  torn  between  the  choice 
of  a  thin  or  thick  soup  or  an  immediate  attack  upon  cold 
beef,  he  was  at  the  door,  and  the  chasseur  touched  his  cap,  and 
the  little  chasseur  put  the  wicker  guard  over  the  hansom's 
wheel.  As  he  jumped  out  he  said,  "Give  him  half-a-crown, " 
and  the  driver  called  after  him,  "Thank  you,  sir." 

It  was  a  beautiful  world,  this  world  outside  of  the  iron 
bars.  Everyone  in  it  contributed  to  his  pleasure  and  to 
his  comfort.  In  this  world  he  was  not  starved  nor  man- 
handled. He  thought  of  this  joyfully  as  he  leaped  up  the 
stairs,  where  young  men  with  grave  faces  and  with  their  hands 
held  negligently  behind  their  backs  bowed  to  him  in  polite 
surprise  at  his  speed.  But  they  had  not  been  starved  on 
condensed  milk.  He  threw  his  coat  and  hat  at  one  of  them, 
and  came  down  the  hall  fearfully  and  quite  weak  with  dread 
lest  it  should  not  be  real.  His  voice  was  shaking  when  he 
asked  Ellis  if  he  had  reserved  a  table.  The  place  was  all  so 
real,  it  must  be  true  this  time.  The  way  Ellis  turned  and 
ran  his  finger  down  the  list  showed  it  was  real,  because  Ellis 
always  did  that,  even  when  he  knew  there  would  not  be  an 
empty  table  for  an  hour.  The  room  was  crowded  with  beau- 
tiful women;  under  the  light  of  the  red  shades  they  looked 
kind  and  approachable,  and  there  was  food  on  every  table, 
and  iced  drinks  in  silver  buckets.  It  was  with  the  joy  of 
great  relief  that  he  heard  Ellis  say  to  his  underling,  ^"Numero 
cinq,  sur  la  terrace,  un  couvert.'^  It  was  real  at  last.  Out- 
side, the  Thames  lay  a  great  gray  shadow.  The  lights  of  the 
Embankment  flashed  and  twinkled  across  it,  the  tower  of  the 
House  of  Commons  rose  against  the  sky,  and  here,  inside,  the 
waiter  was  hurrying  toward  him  carrying  a  smoking  plate  of 
rich  soup  with  a  pungent,  intoxicating  odor. 

And  then  the  ragged  palms,  the  glaring  sun,  the  immovable 
peaks,  and  the  white  surf  stood  again  before  him.  The  iron 
rails  swept  up  and  sank  again,  the  fever  sucked  at  his  bones, 
and  the  pillow  scorched  his  cheek. 

One  morning  for  a  brief  moment  he  came  back  to  real  life 
again  and  lay  quite  still,  seeing  everything  about  him  with 
clear  eyes  and  for  the  first  time,  as  though  he  had  but  just 


)  > 


?  > 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  59 

that  instant  been  lifted  over  the  ship's  side.  His  keeper, 
glancing  up,  found  the  prisoner's  eyes  considering  him  curi- 
ously, and  recognized  the  change.  The  instinct  of  discipline 
brought  him  to  his  feet  with  his  fingers  at  his  sides. 

"Is  the  Lieutenant  feeling  better?" 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  him  gravely. 

"You  are  one  of  our  hospital  stewards. 

"Yes,  Lieutenant." 

"Why  aren't  you  with  the  regiment? 

"I  was  wounded,  too,  sir.  I  got  it  same  time  you  did. 
Lieutenant. ' ' 

* '  Am  I  wounded  ?  Of  course,  I  remember.  Is  this  a  hospi- 
tal ship  ? ' ' 

The  steward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She  's  one  of  the 
transports.     They  have  turned  her  over  to  the  fever  cases." 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  lips  to  ask  another  question ; 
but  his  own  body  answered  that  one,  and  for  a  moment  he  lay 
silent. 

"Do  they  know  up  North  that  I — that  I  'm  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  papers  had  it  in — there  were  pictures  of  the 
Lieutenant  in  some  of  them." 

"Then  I  've  been  ill  some  time?" 

*'0h,  about  eight  days." 

The  soldier  moved  uneasily,  and  the  nurse  in  him  became 
uppermost. 

' '  I  guess  the  Lieutenant  had  n  't  better  talk  any  more, ' '  he 
said.     It  was  his  voice  now  which  held  authority. 

The  Lieutenant  looked  out  at  the  palms  and  the  silent 
gloomy  mountains  and  the  empty  coastline,  where  the  same 
wave  was  rising  and  falling  with  weary  persistence. 

"Eight  days,"  he  said.  His  eyes  shut  quickly,  as  though 
with  a  sudden  touch  of  pain.  He  turned  his  head  and 
sought  for  the  figure  at  the  foot  of  the  cot.  Already"  the 
figure  had  grown  faint  and  was  receding  and  swaying. 

"Has  anyone  written  or  cabled?"  the  Lieutenant  spoke, 
hurriedly.  He  was  fearful  lest  the  figure  should  disappear 
altogether  before  he  could  obtain  his  answer.  "Has  anyone 
come  ? ' ' 


60  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

**Why,  they  couldn't  get  here.  Lieutenant,  not  yet." 

The  voice  came  very  faintly.  "You  go  to  sleep  now,  and 
I  '11  run  and  fetch  some  letters  and  telegrams.  When  you 
wake  up,  maybe  I  '11  have  a  lot  for  you." 

But  the  Lieutenant  caught  the  nurse  by  the  wrist,  and 
crushed  his  hand  in  his  own  thin  fingers.  They  were  hot,  and 
left  the  steward's  skin  wet  with  perspiration.  The  Lieuten- 
ant laughed  gayly. 

''You  see,  Doctor,"  he  said,  briskly,  "that  you  can't  kill 
me.  I  can 't  die.  I  've  got  to  live,  you  understand.  Because, 
sir,  she  said  she  would  come.  She  said  if  I  was  wounded,  or 
if  I  was  ill,  she  would  come  to  me.  She  didn't  care  what 
people  thought.  She  would  come  anyway  and  nurse  me — 
well,  she  will  come. ' ' 

"So,  Doctor — old  man — "  He  plucked  at  the  steward's 
sleeve,  and  stroked  his  hand  eagerly,  "old  man — "  he  began 
again,  beseechingly,  "you  '11  not  let  me  die  until  she  comes, 
will  you?  What?  No,  I  know  I  won't  die.  Nothing  made 
by  man  can  kill  me.  No,  not  until  she  comes.  Then,  after 
that — eight  days,  she  '11  be  here  soon,  any  moment?  What? 
You  think  so,  too?  Don't  you?  Surely,  yes,  any  moment. 
Yes,  I  '11  go  to  sleep  now,  and  when  you  see  her  rowing  out 
from  shore  you  wake  me.  You  '11  know  her ;  you  can 't  make 
a  mistake.  She  is  like — no,  there  is  no  one  like  her — but  you 
can't  make  a  mistake." 

That  day  strange  figures  began  to  mount  the  sides  of  the 
ship,  and  to  occupy  its  every  turn  and  angle  of  space.  Some 
of  them  fell  on  their  knees  and  slapped  the  bare  deck  with 
their  hands,  and  laughed  and  cried  out,  ' '  Thank  God,  I  '11  see 
God's  country  again!"  Some  of  them  were  regulars,  bound 
in  bandages;  some  were  volunteers,  dirty  and  hollow-eyed, 
with  long  beards  on  boys'  faces.  Some  came  on  crutches; 
others  with  their  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  their  comrades, 
staring  ahead  of  them  with  a  fixed  smile,  their  lips  drawn 
back  and  their  teeth  protruding.  At  every  second  step  they 
stumbled,  and  the  face  of  each  was  swept  by  swift  ripples  of 
pain. 

They  lay  on  cots  so  close  together  that  the  nurses  could 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  61 

not  walk  between  them.  They  lay  on  the  wet  decks,  in  the 
scuppers  and  along  the  transoms  and  hatches.  They  were 
like  shipwrecked  mariners  clinging  to  a  raft,  and  they  asked 
nothing  more  than  that  the  ship's  bow  be  turned  toward 
home.  Once  satisfied  as  to  that,  they  relaxed  into  a  state  of 
self-pity  and  miserable  oblivion  to  their  environment,  from 
which  hunger  nor  nausea  nor  aching  bones  could  shake  them. 

The  hospital  steward  touched  the  Lieutenant  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

"We  are  going  North,  sir/'  he  said.  *'The  transport  's 
ordered  North  to  New  York,  with  these  volunteers  and  the 
sick  and  the  wounded.     Do  you  hear  me,  sir?" 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  eyes.  "Has  she  come?"  he 
asked. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  hospital  steward.  He  glanced  im- 
patiently at  the  blue  mountains  and  the  yellow  coast,  from 
which  the  transport  was  rapidly  drawing  away. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  her  coming  just  now,"  he  said.  "But 
she  will,"  he  added. 

"You  let  me  know  at  once  when  she  comes." 

"Why,  cert'nly,  of  course,"  said  the  steward. 

Three  trained  nurses  came  over  the  side  just  before  the 
transport  started  North.  One  was  a  large,  motherly  looking 
woman,  with  a  German  accent.  She  had  been  a  trained  nurse, 
first  in  Berlin,  and  later  in  the  London  Hospital  in  White- 
chapel,  and  at  Bellevue.  The  nurse  was  dressed  in  white, 
and  wore  a  little  silver  medal  at  her  throat;  and  she  was 
strong  enough  to  lift  a  volunteer  out  of  his  cot  and  hold  him 
easily  in  her  arms,  while  one  of  the  convalescents  pulled  his 
cot  out  of  the  rain.  Some  of  the  men  called  her  "nurse"; 
others,  who  wore  scapulars  around  their  necks,  called  her 
"Sister";  and  the  officers  of  the  medical  staff  addressed  her 
as  Miss  Bergen. 

Miss  Bergen  halted  beside  the  cot  of  the  Lieutenant  and 
asked,  "Is  this  the  fever  case  you  spoke  about.  Doctor — the 
one  you  want  moved  to  the  officers'  ward?"  She  slipped  her 
hand  up  under  his  sleeve  and  felt  his  wrist. 

His  pulse  is  very  high,"  she  said  to  the  steward.     "When 


i  i 


62  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

did  you  take  his  temperature?*'  She  drew  a  little  morocco 
case  from  her  pocket  and  from  that  took  a  clinical  thermome- 
ter, which  she  shook  up  and  down,  eying  the  patient  mean- 
while with  a  calm,  impersonal  scrutiny.  The  Lieutenant 
raised  his  head  and  stared  up  at  the  white  figure  beside  his 
cot.  His  eyes  opened  and  then  shut  quickly,  with  a  startled 
look,  in  which  doubt  struggled  with  wonderful  happiness. 
His  hand  stole  out  fearfully  and  warily  until  it  touched  her 
apron,  and  then,  finding  it  was  real,  he  clutched  it  desper- 
ately, and  twisting  his  face  and  body  toward  her,  pulled  her 
down,  clasping  her  hands  in  both  of  his,  and  pressing  them 
close  to  his  face  and  eyes  and  lips.  He  put  them  from  him 
for  an  instant,  and  looked  at  her  through  his  tears. 

*' Sweetheart, "  he  whispered,  "sweetheart,  I  knew  you  'd 
come. ' ' 

As  the  nurse  knelt  on  the  deck  beside  him,  her  thermometer 
slipped  from  her  fingers  and  broke,  and  she  gave  an  exclama- 
tion of  annoyance.  The  young  Doctor  picked  up  the  pieces 
and  tossed  them  overboard.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  they 
smiled  appreciatively.  The  Lieutenant  was  looking  at  the 
nurse  with  the  wonder  and  hope  and  hunger  of  soul  in  his 
eyes  with  which  a  dying  man  looks  at  the  cross  the  priest 
holds  up  before  him.  What  he  saw  where  the  German  nurse 
was  kneeling  was  a  tall,  fair  girl  with  great  bands  and  masses 
of  hair,  with  a  head  rising  like  a  lily  from  a  firm,  white 
throat,  set  on  broad  shoulders  above  a  straight  back  and 
sloping  breast — a  tall,  beautiful  creature,  half-girl,  half- 
woman,  who  looked  back  at  him  shyly,  but  steadily. 

"Listen,"  he  said. 

The  voice  of  the  sick  man  was  so  sure  and  so  sane  that  the 
young  Doctor  started,  and  moved  nearer  to  the  head  of  the 
cot.  "Listen,  dearest,"  the  Lieutenant  whispered.  "I 
wanted  to  tell  you  before  I  came  South.  But  I  did  not  dare ; 
and  then  I  was  afraid  something  might  happen  to  me,  and  I 
could  never  tell  you,  and  you  would  never  know.  So  I  wrote 
it  to  you  in  the  will  I  made  at  Baiquiri,  the  night  before  the 
landing.  If  you  had  n  't  come  now,  you  would  have  learned 
it  in  that  way.     You  would  have  read  there  that  there  never 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  63 

was  anyone  but  you ;  the  rest  were  all  dream  people,  foolish, 
silly — mad.  There  is  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  you ;  you 
have  been  the  only  thing  in  life  that  has  counted.  I  thought 
I  might  do  something  down  here  that  would  make  you  care. 
But  I  got  shot  going  up  a  hill,  and  after  that  I  was  n  't  able 
to  do  anything.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  hills  were  on  fire; 
and  they  took  me  prisoner,  and  kept  me  tied  down  here, 
burning  on  these  coals.  I  can't  live  much  longer,  but  now 
that  I  've  told  you  I  can  have  peace.  They  tried  to  kill  me 
before  you  came ;  but  they  did  n  't  know  I  loved  you,  they 
didn't  know  that  men  who  love  you  can't  die.  They  tried 
to  starve  my  love  for  you,  to  burn  it  out  of  me ;  they  tried  to 
reach  it  with  their  knives.  But  my  love  for  you  is  my  soul, 
and  they  can't  kill  a  man's  soul.  Dear  heart,  I  have  lived 
because  you  lived.  Now  that  you  know — now  that  you  under- 
stand— what  does  it  matter  ? ' ' 

Miss  Bergen  shook  her  head  with  great  vigor.  ' '  Nonsense, ' ' 
she  said,  cheerfully.  "You  are  not  going  to  die.  As  soon 
as  we  move  you  out  of  this  rain,  and  some  food  cook " 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  young  Doctor,  savagely.  "Do  you 
want  to  kill  him?" 

When  she  spoke,  the  patient  had  thrown  his  arms  heavily 
across  his  face,  and  had  fallen  back,  lying  rigid  on  the  pillow. 

The  Doctor  led  the  way  across  the  prostrate  bodies,  apolo- 
gizing as  he  went.  "I  am  sorry  I  spoke  so  quickly,"  he  said, 
"but  he  thought  you  were  real.  I  mean  he  thought  you  were 
some  one  he  really  knew " 

"He  was  just  delirious,"  said  the  German  nurse,  calmly. 

The  Doctor  mixed  himself  a  Scotch  and  soda  and  drank  it 
with  a  single  gesture. 

"Ugh!"  he  said  to  the  ward-room.  "I  feel  as  though  I  'd 
been  opening  another  man's  letters." 


The  transport  drove  through  the  empty  seas  with  heavy, 
clumsy  upheavals,  rolling  like  a  buoy.  Having  been  originally 
intended  for  the  freight-carrying  trade,  she  had  no  sympathy 
with  hearts  that  beat  for  a  sight  of  their  native  land,  or  for 
lives  that  counted  their  remaining  minutes  by  the  throbbing 


64  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

of  her  engines.  Occasionally,  without  apparent  reason,  she 
was  thrown  violently  from  her  course;  but  it  was  invariably 
the  case  that  when  her  stern  went  to  starboard,  something 
splashed  in  the  water  on  her  port  side  and  drifted  past  her, 
until,  when  it  had  cleared  the  blades  of  her  propeller,  a 
voice  cried  out,  and  she  was  swung  back  on  her  home-bound 
track  again. 

The  Lieutenant  missed  the  familiar  palms  and  the  tiny 
block-house;  and  seeing  nothing  beyond  the  iron  rails  but 
great  wastes  of  gray  water,  he  decided  he  was  on  board  a 
prison-ship,  or  that  he  had  been  strapped  to  a  raft  and  cast 
adrift.  People  came  for  hours  at  a  time  and  stood  at  the 
foot  of  his  cot,  and  talked  with  him  and  he  to  them — people 
he  had  loved  and  people  he  had  long  forgotten,  some  of  whom 
he  had  thought  were  dead.  One  of  them  he  could  have  sworn 
he  had  seen  buried  in  a  deep  trench,  and  covered  with 
branches  of  palmetto.  He  had  heard  the  bugler,  with  tears 
choking  him,  sound  ''taps";  and  with  his  own  hand  he  had 
placed  the  dead  man's  campaign  hat  on  the  mound  of  fresh 
earth  above  the  grave.  Yet  here  he  was  still  alive,  and  he 
came  with  other  men  of  his  troop  to  speak  to  him ;  but  when 
he  reached  out  to  them  they  were  gone — the  real  and  the  un- 
real, the  dead  and  the  living — and  even  She  disappeared 
whenever  he  tried  to  take  her  hand,  and  sometimes  the  hospi- 
tal steward  drove  her  away. 

**Did  that  young  lady  say  when  she  was  coming  back 
again?"  he  asked  the  steward. 

' '  The  young  lady !  What  young  lady  ? ' '  asked  the  steward, 
wearily. 

"The  one  who  has  been  sitting  there,"  he  answered.  He 
pointed  with  his  gaunt  hand  at  the  man  in  the  next  cot. 

"Oh,  that  young  lady.  Yes,  she  's  coming  back.  She  's 
just  gone  below  to  fetch  you  some  hard-tack." 

The  young  volunteer  in  the  next  cot  whined  grievously. 

"That  crazy  man  gives  me  the  creeps,"  he  groaned.  "He  's 
always  waking  me  up,  and  looking  at  me  as  though  he  was 
going  to  eat  me," 

Shut  your  head,"  said  the  steward.     "He  's  a  better  man 


<  ( 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  65 

crazy  than  you  '11  ever  be  with  the  little  sense  you  've  got. 
And  he  has  two  Mauser  holes  in  him.  Crazy,  eh?  It  's  a 
good  thing  for  you  that  there  was  about  four  thousand  of  us 
regulars  just  as  crazy  as  him,  or  you  'd  never  seen  the  top  of 
the  hill." 

One  morning  there  was  a  great  commotion  on  deck,  and 
all  the  convalescents  balanced  themselves  on  the  rail,  shiver- 
ing m  their  pajamas,  and  pointed  one  way.  The  transport 
was  moving  swiftly  and  smoothly  through  water  as  flat  as  a 
lake,  and  making  a  great  noise  with  her  steam-whistle.  The 
noise  was  echoed  by  many  more  steam-whistles;  and  the 
ghosts  of  out-bound  ships  and  tugs  and  excursion  steamers 
ran  past  her  out  of  the  mist  and  disappeared,  saluting  joy- 
ously. All  of  the  excursion  steamers  had  a  heavy  list  to  the 
side  nearest  the  transport,  and  the  ghosts  on  them  crowded 
to  that  rail  and  waved  handkerchiefs  and  cheered.  The  fog 
lifted  suddenly,  and  between  the  iron  rails  the  Lieutenant 
saw  high  green  hills  on  either  side  of  a  great  harbor.  Houses 
and  trees  and  thousands  of  masts  swept  past  like  a  panorama ; 
and  beyond  was  a  mirage  of  three  cities,  with  curling  smoke- 
wreaths,  and  sky-reaching  buildings,  and  a  great  swinging 
bridge,  and  a  giant  statue  of  woman  waving  a  welcome  home. 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  the  spectacle  with  cynical  dis- 
belief. He  was  far  too  wise  and  far  too  cunning  to  be  be- 
witched by  it.  In  his  heart  he  pitied  the  men  about  him, 
who  laughed  wildly,  and  shouted,  and  climbed  recklessly  to 
the  rails  and  ratlines.  He  had  been  deceived  too  often  not 
to  know  that  it  was  not  real.  He  knew  from  cruel  experience 
that  in  a  few  moments  the  tall  buildings  would  crumble  away, 
the  thousands  of  columns  of  white  smoke  that  flashed  like 
snow  in  the  sun,  the  busy,  shrieking  tug-boats,  and  the  great 
statue  would  vanish  into  the  sea,  leaving  it  gray  and  bare. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  shut  the  vision  out.  It  was  so  beau- 
tiful that  it  tempted  him:  but  he  would  not  be  mocked,  and 
he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  They  were  carrying  the 
farce  too  far,  he  thought.  It  was  really  too  absurd ;  for  now 
they  were  at  a  wharf  which  was  so  real  that,  had  he  not  known 
by  previous  suffering,  he  would  have  been  utterly  deceived  by 


66  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

it.  And  there  were  great  crowds  of  smiling,  cheering  people, 
and  a  waiting  guard  of  honor  in  fresh  uniforms,  and  rows  of 
police  pushing  the  people  this  way  and  that;  and  these  men 
about  him  were  taking  it  all  quite  seriously  and  making  ready 
to  disembark,  carrying  their  blanket-rolls  and  rifles  with 
them. 

A  band  was  playing  joyously,  and  the  man  in  the  next 
cot,  who  was  being  lifted  to  a  stretcher,  said,  ''There  's  the 
Governor  and  his  staff;  that  's  him  in  the  high  hat."  It  was 
really  very  well  done.  The  Custom-house  and  the  Elevated 
Railroad  and  Castle  Garden  were  as  like  to  life  as  a  photo- 
graph, and  the  crowd  was  as  well  handled  as  a  mob  in  a 
play.  His  heart  ached  for  it  so  that  he  could  not  bear  the 
pain,  and  he  turned  his  back  on  it.  It  was  cruel  to  keep  it 
up  so  long.  His  keeper  lifted  him  in  his  arms,  and  pulled 
him  into  a  dirty  uniform  which  had  belonged,  apparently, 
to  a  much  larger  man — a  man  who  had  been  killed  probably, 
for  there  were  dark-brown  marks  of  blood  on  the  tunic  and 
breeches.  When  he  tried  to  stand  on  his  feet.  Castle  Garden 
and  the  Battery  disappeared  in  a  black  cloud  of  night,  just 
as  he  knew  they  would;  but  when  he  opened  his  eyes  from 
the  stretcher,  they  had  returned  again.  It  was  a  most  re- 
markably vivid  vision.  They  kept  it  up  so  well.  Now  the 
young  Doctor  and  the  hospital  steward  were  pretending  to 
carry  him  down  a  gangplank  and  into  an  open  space ;  and 
he  saw  quite  close  to  him  a  long  line  of  policemen,  and  be- 
hind them  thousands  of  faces,  some  of  them  women's  faces — 
women  who  pointed  at  him  and  then  shook  their  heads  and 
cried,  and  pressed  their  hands  to  their  cheeks,  still  looking  at 
him.  He  wondered  why  they  cried.  He  did  not  know  them, 
nor  did  they  know  him.  No  one  knew  him ;  these  people 
were  only  ghosts. 

There  was  a  quick  parting  in  the  crowd.  A  man  he  had 
once  known  shoved  two  of  the  policemen  to  one  side,  and  he 
heard  a  girl 's  voice  speaking  his  name,  like  a  sob ;  and  She 
came  running  out  across  the  open  space  and  fell  on  her  knees 
beside  the  stretcher,  and  bent  down  over  him,  and  he  was 
clasped  in  two  young,  firm  arms. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  67 

**0f  course  it  is  not  real,  of  course  it  is  not  She,"  he  as- 
sured himself.  "Because  She  would  not  do  such  a  thing. 
Before  all  these  people  She  would  not  do  it." 

But  he  trembled  and  his  heart  throbbed  so  cruelly  that  he 
could  not  bear  the  pain. 

She  was  pretending  to  cry. 

"They  wired  us  you  had  started  for  Tampa  on  the  hospital 
ship,"  She  was  saying,  "and  Aunt  and  I  went  all  the  way 
there  before  we  heard  you  had  been  sent  North.  We  have 
been  on  the  cars  a  week.  That  is  why  I  missed  you.  Do  you 
understand?  It  was  not  my  fault.  I  tried  to  come.  In- 
deed, I  tried  to  come." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  up  fearfully  at  the  young 
Doctor. 

"Tell  me,  why  does  he  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  asked. 
"He  doesn't  know  me.  Is  he  very  ill?  Tell  me  the  truth." 
She  drew  in  her  breath  quickly.  * '  Of  course  you  will  tell  me 
the  truth." 

When  she  asked  the  question  he  felt  her  arms  draw  tight 
about  his  shoulders.  It  was  as  though  she  was  holding  him 
to  herself,  and  from  someone  who  had  reached  out  for  him. 
In  his  trouble  he  turned  to  his  old  friend  and  keeper.  His 
voice  was  hoarse  and  very  low. 

"Is  this  the  same  young  lady  who  was  on  the  transport — 
the  one  you  used  to  drive  away?" 

In  his  embarrassment,  the  hospital  steward  blushed  under 
his  tan,  and  stammered. 

"Of  course  it  's  the  same  young  lady,"  the  Doctor  an- 
swered, briskly.  "And  I  won't  let  them  drive  her  away." 
He  turned  to  her,  smiling  gravely.  "I  think  his  condition 
has  ceased  to  be  dangerous,  Madam,"  he  said. 

People  who,  in  a  former  existence,  had  been  his  friends,  and 
Her  brother^  gathered  about  his  stretcher  and  bore  !him 
through  the  crowd  and  lifted  him  into  a  carriage  filled  with 
cushions,  among  which  he  sank  lower  and  lower.  Then  She 
sat  beside  him,  and  he  heard  Her  brother  say  to  the  coach- 
man, "Home,  and  drive  slowly  and  keep  on  the  asphalt." 

The  carriage  moved  forward,  and  She  put  her  arm  about 


68  ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

him,  and  his  head  fell  on  her  shoulder,  and  neither  of  them 
spoke.  The  vision  had  lasted  so  long  now  that  he  was  torn 
with  the  joy  that  after  all  it  might  be  real.  But  he  could 
not  bear  the  awakening  if  it  were  not,  so  he  raised  his  head 
fearfully  and  looked  up  into  the  beautiful  eyes  above  him. 
His  brows  were  knit,  and  he  struggled  with  a  great  doubt 
and  an  awful  joy. 

Dearest,'^  he  said,  "is  it  realT' 
Is  it  real?"  she  repeated. 

Even  as  a  dream,  it  was  so  wonderfully  beautiful  that  he 
was  satisfied  if  it  could  only  continue  so,  if  but  for  a  little 
while. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  begged  again,  trembling,  "that  it  is 
going  to  last  much  longer?" 

She  smiled,  and  bending  her  head  slowly,  kissed  him. 
It  is  going  to  last — always,"  she  said. 


( i 
i  i 


(< 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 
By  STACY  AUMONIER 

To  LOOK  at  old  Sam  Gates  you  would  never  suspect  him  of 
having  nerves.  His  sixty-nine  years  of  close  application  to 
the  needs  of  the  soil  had  given  him  a  certain  earthy  stolidity. 
To  observe  him  hoeing,  or  thinning  out  a  broad  field  of  tur- 
nips, hardly  attracted  one 's  attention,  he  seemed  so  much  part 
and  parcel  of  the  whole  scheme.  He  blended  into  the  soil 
like  a  glorified  swede.  Nevertheless,  the  half-dozen  people 
who  claimed  his  acquaintance  knew  him  to  be  a  man  who 
suffered  from  little  moods  of  irritability. 

And  on  this  glorious  morning  a  little  incident  annoyed  him 
unreasonably.  It  concerned  his  niece,  Aggie.  She  was  a 
plump  girl  with  clear,  blue  eyes,  and  a  face  as  round  and 
inexpressive  as  the  dumplings  for  which  the  county  was 
famous.  She  came  slowly  across  the  long  sweep  of  the  down- 
land  and,  putting  down  the  bundle  wrapped  in  a  red  hand- 
kerchief which  contained  his  breakfast  and  dinner,  she  said: 

''Well,  Uncle,  is  there  any  noos?" 

Now,  this  may  not  appear  to  the  casual  reader  to  be  a 
remark  likely  to  cause  irritation,  but  it  affected  old  Sam  Gates 
as  a  very  silly  and  unnecessary  question.  It  was,  moreover, 
the  constant  repetition  of  it  which  was  beginning  to  anger  him. 
He  met  his  niece  twice  a  day.  In  the  morning  she  brought 
his  bundle  of  food  at  seven,  and  when  he  passed  his  sister's 
cottage  on  the  way  home  to  tea  at  five  she  was  invariably  hang- 
ing about  the  gate,  and  she  always  said  in  the  same  voice: 

"Well,  Uncle,  is  there  any  noos?" 

Noos!     What  noos  should  there  be?     For  sixty-nine  years 

he  had  never  lived  farther  than  five  miles  from  Halvesham. 

For  nearly  sixty  of  those  years  he  had  bent  his  back  above 

the  soil.     There  were,  indeed,  historic  occasions.     Once,  for 

69 


70  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

instance,  when  lie  had  married  Annie  Hachet.  And  there  was 
the  birth  of  his  daughter.  There  was  also  a  famous  occasion 
when  he  had  visited  London.  Once  he  had  been  to  a  flower- 
show  at  Market  Roughborough.  He  either  went  or  didn't 
go  to  church  on  Sundays.  He  had  had  many  interesting  chats 
with  Mr.  James  at  the  Cowman,  and  three  years  ago  had  sold  a 
pig  to  Mrs.  Way.  But  he  couldn't  always  have  interesting 
noos  of  this  sort  up  his  sleeve.  Did  n  't  the  silly  zany  know 
that  for  the  last  three  weeks  he  had  been  hoeing  and  thinning 
out  turnips  for  Mr.  Hodge  on  this  very  same  field?  What 
noos  could  there  be? 

He  blinked  at  his  niece,  and  did  n  't  answer.  She  undid  the 
parcel  and  said : 

Mrs.  Goping's  fowl  got  out  again  last  night." 

"Ah,"  he  replied  in  a  non-committal  manner  and  began  to 
munch  his  bread  and  bacon.  His  niece  picked  up  the  hand- 
kerchief and,  humming  to  herself,  walked  back  across  the  field. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  a  white  sea  mist  added  to 
the  promise  of  a  hot  day.  He  sat  there  munching,  thinking  of 
nothing  in  particular,  but  gradually  subsiding  into  a  mood  of 
placid  content.  He  noticed  the  back  of  Aggie  disappear  in 
the  distance.  It  was  a  mile  to  the  cottage  and  a  mile  and  a 
half  to  Halvesham.  Silly  things,  girls.  They  were  all  alike. 
One  had  to  make  allowances.  He  dismissed  her  from  his 
thoughts,  and  took  a  long  swig  of  tea  out  of  a  bottle.  Insects 
buzzed  lazily.  He  tapped  his  pocket  to  assure  himself  that 
his  pouch  of  shag  was  there,  and  then  he  continued  munching. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  stretched  him- 
self comfortably.  He  looked  along  the  line  of  turnips  he  had 
thinned  and  then  across  the  adjoining  field  of  swedes.  Silver 
streaks  appeared  on  the  sea  below  the  mist.  In  some  dim  way 
he  felt  happy  in  his  solitude  amidst  this  sweeping  immensity 
of  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 

And  then  something  else  came  to  irritate  him :  it  was  one  of 
''these  dratted  airyplanes."  *  *  Airyplanes "  were  his  pet 
aversion.  He  could  find  nothing  to  be  said  in  their  favor. 
Nasty,  noisy,  disfiguring  things  that  seared  the  heavens  and 
made  the  earth  dangerous.     And  every  day  there  seemed  to  be 


STACY  AUMONIER  71 

more  and  more  of  them.  Of  course  *Hhis  old  war'*  was  re- 
sponsible for  a  lot  of  them,  he  knew.  The  war  was  a  ''plaguy 
noosance."  They  were  short-handed  on  the  farm,  beer  and 
tobacco  were  dear,  and  Mrs.  Steven's  nephew  had  been  and 
got  wounded  in  the  foot. 

He  turned  his  attention  once  more  to  the  turnips;  but  an 
''airyplane"  has  an  annoying  genius  for  gripping  one's  atten- 
tion. When  it  appears  on  the  scene,  however  much  we  dislike 
it,  it  has  a  way  of  taking  the  stage-center.  We  cannot  help 
constantly  looking  at  it.  And  so  it  was  with  old  Sam  Gates. 
He  spat  on  his  hands  and  blinked  up  at  the  sky.  And  sud- 
denly the  aeroplane  behaved  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner. 
It  was  well  over  the  sea  when  it  seemed  to  lurch  drunkenly 
and  skimmed  the  water.  Then  it  shot  up  at  a  dangerous  angle 
and  zigzagged.  It  started  to  go  farther  out,  and  then  turned 
and  made  for  the  land.  The  engines  were  making  a  curious 
grating  noise.  It  rose  once  more,  and  then  suddenly  dived 
downward,  and  came  plump  down  right  in  the  middle  of  Mr. 
Hodge's  field  of  swedes. 

And  then,  as  if  not  content  with  this  desecration,  it  ran 
along  the  ground,  ripping  and  tearing  up  twenty-five  yards 
of  good  swedes,  and  then  came  to  a  stop. 

Old  Sam  Gates  was  in  a  terrible  state.  The  aeroplane  was 
more  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  but  he  waved  his  arms  and 
called  out: 

"Hi,  you  there,  you  mustn't  land  in  they  swedes! 
They  're  Mister  Hodge's.'^ 

The  instant  the  aeroplane  stopped,  a  man  leaped  out  and 
gazed  quickly  round.  He  glanced  at  Sam  Gates,  and  seemed 
uncertain  whether  to  address  him  or  whether  to  concentrate 
his  attention  on  the  flying-machine.  The  latter  arrangement 
appeared  to  be  his  ultimate  decision.  He  dived  under  the 
engine  and  became  frantically  busy.  Sam  had  never  seen  any 
one  work  with  such  furious  energy;  but  all  the  same  it  was 
not  to  be  tolerated.  It  was  disgraceful.  Sam  started  out 
across  the  field,  almost  hurrying  in  his  indignation.  When 
he  appeared  within  earshot  of  the  aviator  he  cried  out  again : 
Hi !  you  must  n  't  rest  your  old  airyplane  here !     You  've 


<  ( 


72  A  SOURCE  OF  IREITATION 

kicked  up  all  Mr.  Hodge's  swedes.  A  noice  thing  you  've 
done ! ' ' 

He  was  within  five  yards  when  suddenly  the  aviator  turned 
and  covered  him  with  a  revolver !  And  speaking  in  a  sharp, 
staccato  voice,  he  said : 

''Old  Grandfather,  you  must  sit  down.  I  am  very  much 
occupied.  If  you  interfere  or  attempt  to  go  away,  I  shoot 
you.     So!" 

Sam  gazed  at  the  horrid,  glittering  little  barrel  and  gasped. 
Well,  he  never !  To  be  threatened  with  murder  when  you  're 
doing  your  duty  in  your  employer's  private  property!  But, 
still,  perhaps  the  man  was  mad.  A  man  must  be  more  or  less 
mad  to  go  up  in  one  of  those  crazy  things.  And  life  was  very 
sweet  on  that  summer  morning  despite  sixty-nine  years.  He 
sat  down  among  the  swedes. 

The  aviator  was  so  busy  with  his  cranks  and  machinery  that 
he  hardly  deigned  to  pay  him  any  attention  except  to  keep  the 
revolver  handy.  He  worked  feverishly,  and  Sam  sat  watch- 
ing him.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he  appeared  to  havei 
solved  his  troubles  with  the  machine,  but  he  still  seemed  very 
scared.  He  kept  on  glancing  round  and  out  to  sea.  When  his 
repairs  were  complete  he  straightened  his  back  and  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow.  He  was  apparently  on  the  point 
of  springing  back  into  the  machine  and  going  off  when  a 
sudden  mood  of  f acetiousness,  caused  by  relief  from  the  strain 
he  had  endured,  came  to  him.  He  turned  to  old  Sam  and 
smiled,  at  the  same  time  remarking: 

''Well,  old  Grandfather,  and  now  we  shall  be  all  right, 
isn't  it?" 

He  came  close  up  to  Sam,  and  then  suddenly  started  back. 

''Gott!"  he  cried,  "Paul  Jouperts!" 

Bewildered,  Sam  gazed  at  him,  and  the  madman  started 
talking  to  him  in  some  foreign  tongue.     Sam  shook  his  head. 

"You  no  roight,"  he  remarked,  "to  come  bargin'  through 
they  swedes  of  Mr.  Hodge's." 

And  then  the  aviator  behaved  in  a  most  peculiar  manner. 
He  came  up  and  examined  Sam 's  face  very  closely,  and  gave  a 


STACY  AUIVIONIER  73 

sudden  tug  at  his  beard  and  hair,  as  if  to  see  whether  they  were 
real  or  false. 

' '  What  is  your  name,  old  man  ? "  he  said. 

''Sam  Gates." 

The  aviator  muttered  some  words  that  sounded  something 
like  "mare  vudish,"  and  then  turned  to  his  machine.  He 
appeared  to  be  dazed  and  in  a  great  state  of  doubt.  He 
fumbled  with  some  cranks,  but  kept  glancing  at  old  Sam.  At 
last  he  got  into  the  car  and  strapped  himself  in.  Then  he 
stopped,  and  sat  there  deep  in  thought.  At  last  he  suddenly 
unstrapped  himself  and  sprang  out  again  and,  approaching 
Sam,  said  very  deliberately: 

' '  Old  Grandfather,  I  shall  require  you  to  accompany  me. ' ' 

Sam  gasped. 

' '  Eh  r '  he  said.  ' '  What  be  talkin '  about  ?  'Company  ?  I 
got  these  'ere  loines  o'  turnips — I  be  already  behoind — " 

The  disgusting  little  revolver  once  more  flashed  before  his 
eyes. 

''There  must  be  no  discussion,"  came  the  voice.  ''It  is 
necessary  that  you  mount  the  seat  of  the  car  without  delay. 
Otherwise  I  shoot  you  like  the  dog  you  are.     So ! " 

Old  Sam  was  hale  and  hearty.  He  had  no  desire  to  die  so 
ignominiously.  The  pleasant  smell  of  the  Norfolk  downland 
was  in  his  nostrils;  his  foot  was  on  his  native  heath.  He 
mounted  the  seat  of  the  car,  contenting  himself  with  a 
mutter : 

"Well,  that  be  a  noice  thing,  I  must  say!  Flyin'  about  the 
country  with  all  they  turnips  on'y  half  thinned ! " 

He  found  himself  strapped  in.  The  aviator  was  in  a  fever 
of  anxiety  to  get  away.  The  engines  made  a  ghastly  splutter 
and  noise.  The  thing  started  running  along  the  ground. 
Suddenly  it  shot  upward,  giving  the  swedes  a  last  contemptu- 
ous kick.  At  twenty  minutes  to  eight  that  morning  old  Sam 
found  himself  being  borne  right  up  above  his  fields  and  out  to 
sea !  His  breath  came  quickly.  He  was  a  little  frightened. 
' '  God  forgive  me ! "  he  murmured. 
The  thing  was  so  fantastic  and  sudden  that  his  mind  could 


74  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

not  grasp  it.  He  only  felt  in  some  vague  way  that  he  was 
going  to  die,  and  he  struggled  to  attune  his  mind  to  the  change. 
He  offered  up  a  mild  prayer  to  God,  Who,  he  felt,  must  be 
very  near,  somewhere  up  in  these  clouds.  Automatically  he 
thought  of  the  vicar  at  Halvesham,  and  a  certain  sense  of  com- 
fort came  to  him  at  the  reflection  that  on  the  previous  day  he 
had  taken  a  '^ cooking  of  runner  beans"  to  God's  representa- 
tive in  that  village.  He  felt  calmer  after  that,  but  the  horrid 
machine  seemed  to  go  higher  and  higher.  He  could  not  turn 
in  his  seat  and  he  could  see  nothing  but  sea  and  sky.  Of 
course  the  man  was  mad,  mad  as  a  March  hare.  Of  what 
earthly  use  could  he  be  to  any  one?  Besides,  he  had  talked 
pure  gibberish,  and  called  him  Paul  something,  when  he  had 
already  told  him  that  his  name  was  Sam.  The  thing  would 
fall  down  into  the  sea  soon,  and  they  would  both  be  drowned. 
Well,  well,  he  had  almost  reached  three-score  years  and  ten. 
He  was  protected  by  a  screen,  but  it  seemed  very  cold.  What 
on  earth  would  Mr.  Hodge  say?  There  was  no  one  left  to 
work  the  land  but  a  fool  of  a  boy  named  Billy  Whitehead  at 
Dene's  Cross.  On,  on,  on  they  went  at  a  furious  pace.  His 
thoughts  danced  disconnectedly  from  incidents  of  his  youth, 
conversations  with  the  vicar,  hearty  meals  in  the  open,  a  frock 
his  sister  wore  on  the  day  of  the  postman's  wedding,  the 
drone  of  a  psalm,  the  illness  of  some  ewes  belonging  to  Mr. 
Hodge.  Everything  seemed  to  be  moving  very  rapidly,  up- 
setting his  sense  of  time.  He  felt  outraged,  and  yet  at  mo- 
ments there  was  something  entrancing  in  the  wild  experience. 
He  seemed  to  be  living  at  an  incredible  pace.  Perhaps  he  was 
really  dead  and  on  his  way  to  the  kingdom  of  God.  Per- 
haps this  was  the  way  they  took  people. 

After  some  indefinite  period  he  suddenly  caught  sight  of  a 
long  strip  of  land.  Was  this  a  foreign  country,  or  were 
they  returning  ?  He  had  by  this  time  lost  all  feeling  of  fear. 
He  became  interested  and  almost  disappointed.  The  ''airy- 
plane  ' '  was  not  such  a  fool  as  it  looked.  It  was  very  wonder- 
ful to  be  right  up  in  the  sky  like  this.  Plis  dreams  were  sud- 
denly disturbed  by  a  fearful  noise.  He  thought  the  machine 
was  blown  to  pieces.     It  dived  and  ducked  through  the  air, 


STACY  AUMONIER  75 

and  things  were  bursting  all  round  it  and  making  an  awful 
din,  and  then  it  went  up  higher  and  higher.  After  a  while 
these  noises  ceased,  and  he  felt  the  machine  gliding  down- 
ward. They  were  really  right  above  solid  land — trees,  fields, 
streams,  and  white  villages.  Down,  down,  down  they  glided. 
This  was  a  foreign  country.  There  were  straight  avenues  of 
poplars  and  canals.  This  was  not  Halvesham.  He  felt  the 
thing  glide  gently  and  bump  into  a  field.  Some  men  ran  for- 
ward and  approached  them,  and  the  mad  aviator  called  out 
to  them.  They  were  mostly  fat  men  in  gray  uniforms,  and 
they  all  spoke  this  foreign  gibberish.  Some  one  came  and  un- 
strapped him.  He  was  very  stiff  and  could  hardly  move.  An 
exceptionally  gross-looking  man  punched  him  in  the  ribs  and 
roared  with  laughter.  They  all  stood  round  and  laughed  at 
him,  while  the  mad  aviator  talked  to  them  and  kept  pointing 
at  him.     Then  he  said: 

"Old  Grandfather,  you  must  come  with  me." 

He  was  led  to  an  iron-roofed  building  and  shut  in  a  little 
room.  There  were  guards  outside  with  fixed  bayonets.  After 
a  while  the  mad  aviator  appeared  again,  accompanied  by  two 
soldiers.  He  beckoned  him  to  follow.  They  marched  through 
a  quadrangle  and  entered  another  building.  They  went 
straight  into  an  office  where  a  very  important-looking  man, 
covered  with  medals,  sat  in  an  easy-chair.  There  was  a  lot  of 
saluting  and  clicking  of  heels.  The  aviator  pointed  at  Sam 
and  said  something,  and  the  man  with  the  medals  started  at 
sight  of  him,  and  then  came  up  and  spoke  to  him  in  English. 

"What  is  your  name?  Where  do  you  come  from?  Your 
age?     The  name  and  birthplace  of  your  parents?" 

He  seemed  intensely  interested,  and  also  pulled  his  hair 
and  beard  to  see  if  they  came  off.  So  well  and  naturally  did 
he  and  the  aviator  speak  English  that  after  a  voluble  examina- 
tion they  drew  apart,  and  continued  the  conversation  in  that 
language.  And  the  extraordinary  conversation  was  of  this 
nature : 

"It  is  a  most  remarkable  resemblance,"  said  the  man  with 
medals.  ^'Unglauhlich!  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do 
with  him,  Hausemann? 


5  ) 


76  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

*'The  idea  came  to  me  suddenly,  Excellency/'  replied  the 
aviator,  "and  you  may  consider  it  worthless.  It  is  just  this. 
The  resemblance  is  so  amazing.  Paul  Jouperts  has  given  us 
more  valuable  information  than  any  one  at  present  in  our 
service,  and  the  English  know  that.  There  is  an  award  of 
five  thousand  francs  on  his  head.  Twice  they  have  captured 
him,  and  each  time  he  escaped.  All  the  company  commanders 
and  their  staff  have  his  photograph.  He  is  a  serious  thorn  in 
their  flesh.'' 

''Well?"  replied  the  man  with  the  medals. 

The  aviator  whispered  confidentially: 

* '  Suppose,  your  Excellency,  that  they  found  the  dead  body 
of  Paul  Jouperts?" 

''Well?"  replied  the  big  man. 

' '  My  suggestion  is  this.  To-morrow,  as  you  know,  the  Eng- 
lish are  attacking  Hill  701,  which  for  tactical  reasons  we 
have  decided  to  evacuate.  If  after  the  attack  they  find  the 
dead  body  of  Paul  Jouperts  in,  say,  the  second  lines,  they  will 
take  no  further  trouble  in  the  matter.  You  know  their  lack 
of  thoroughness.  Pardon  me,  I  was  two  years  at  Oxford 
University.  And  consequently  Paul  Jouperts  will  be  able  to 
prosecute  his  labors  undisturbed." 

The  man  with  the  medals  twirled  his  mustache  and  looked 
thoughtfully  at  his  colleague. 

Where  is  Paul  at  the  moment?"  he  asked. 
He  is  acting  as  a  gardener  at  the  Convent  of  St.  Eloise, 
at  Mailleton-en-haut,  which,  as  you  know,  is  one  hundred 
meters  from  the  headquarters  of  the  British  central  army 
staff." 

The  man  with  the  medals  took  two  or  three  rapid  turns  up 
and  down  the  room,  then  he  said : 

"Your  plan  is  excellent,  Hausemann.  The  only  point  of 
difficulty  is  that  the  attack  started  this  morning." 
This  morning?"  exclaimed  the  other. 
Yes;  the  English  attacked  unexpectedly  at  dawn.  We 
have  already  evacuated  the  first  line.  We  shall  evacuate  the 
second  line  at  eleven-fifty.  It  is  now  ten-fifteen.  There  may 
be  just  time." 


( ( 
( I 


STACY  AUMONIER  7T 

He  looked  suddenly  at  old  Sam  in  the  way  that  a  butcher 
might  look  at  a  prize  heifer  at  an  agricultural  show  and  re- 
marked casually: 

''Yes,  it  is  a  remarkable  resemblance.  It  seems  a  pity  not 
to — do  something  with  it." 

Then,  speaking  in  German,  he  added : 

"It  is  worth  trying.  And  if  it  succeeds,  the  higher  author- 
ities shall  hear  of  your  lucky  accident  and  inspiration,  Herr 
Hausemann.  Instruct  Oh er -lieutenant  Schultz  to  send  the 
old  fool  by  two  orderlies  to  the  east  extremity  of  Trench  38. 
Keep  him  there  till  the  order  of  evacuation  is  given,  then 
shoot  him,  but  don't  disfigure  him,  and  lay  him  out  face  up- 
ward." 

The  aviator  saluted  and  withdrew,  accompanied  by  his 
victim.  Old  Sam  had  not  understood  the  latter  part  of  the 
conversation,  and  he  did  not  catch  quite  all  that  was  said  in 
English;  but  he  felt  that  somehow  things  were  not  '^^'^^oming 
too  promising,  and  it  was  time  to  assert  himself.  ISo  ne 
remarked  when  they  got  outside : 

*'Now,  look  'ee  'ere.  Mister,  when  am  I  goin'  to  get  back  to 
my  turnips  ? ' ' 

And  the  aviator  replied,  with  a  pleasant  smile : 

"Do  not  be  disturbed,  old  Grandfather.  You  shall  get 
back  to  the  soil  quite  soon." 

In  a  few  moments  he  found  himself  in  a  large  gray  car, 
accompanied  by  four  soldiers.  The  aviator  left  him.  The 
country  was  barren  and  horrible,  full  of  great  pits  and  rents, 
and  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  artillery  and  the  shriek  of 
shells.  Overhead,  aeroplanes  were  buzzing  angrily.  He 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  transported  from  the  kingdom  of  God 
to  the  pit  of  darkness.  He  wondered  whether  the  vicar  had 
enjoyed  the  runner  beans.  He  could  not  imagine  runnei 
beans  growing  here;  runner  beans,  aye,  or  anything  else. 
If  this  was  a  foreign  country,  give  him  dear  old  England ! 

Or-r-r!  hang!  Something  exploded  just  at  the  rear  of  th«> 
car.  The  soldiers  ducked,  and  one  of  them  pushed  him  in  the 
stomach  and  swore. 

An  ugly-looking  lout,"  he  thought.     "If  I  wor  twent} 


( i 


78  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 


years  younger,  I  'd  give  him  a  punch  in  the  eye  that  'u'd 
make  him  sit  up." 

The  car  came  to  a  halt  by  a  broken  wall.  The  party  hurried 
out  and  dived  behind  a  mound.  He  was  pulled  down  a  kind 
of  shaft,  and  found  himself  in  a  room  buried  right  under- 
ground, where  three  officers  were  drinking  and  smoking.  The 
soldiers  saluted  and  handed  them  a  type-written  dispatch. 
The  officers  looked  at  him  drunkenly,  and  one  came  up  and 
pulled  his  beard  and  spat  in  his  face  and  called  him  "an  old 
English  swine."  He  then  shouted  out  some  instructions  to 
the  soldiers,  and  they  led  him  out  into  the  narrow  trench. 
One  walked  behind  him,  and  occasionally  prodded  him  with 
the  butt-end  of  a  gun.  The  trenches  were  half  full  of  water 
and  reeked  of  gases,  powder,  and  decaying  matter.  Shells 
were  constantly  bursting'  overhead,  and  in  places  the  trenches 
had  crumbled  and  were  nearly  blocked  up.  They  stumbled  on, 
sometimes  falling,  sometimes  dodging  moving  masses,  and 
occasionally  crawling  over  the  dead  bodies  of  men.  At  last 
thev  TP^^hed  a  deserted-looking  trench,  and  one  of  the  soldiers 
pushed  him  into  the  corner  of  it  and  growled  something,  and 
then  disappeared  round  the  angle.  Old  Sam  was  exhausted. 
He  leaned  panting  against  the  mud  wall,  expecting  every 
minute  to  be  blown  to  pieces  by  one  of  those  infernal  things 
that  seemed  to  be  getting  more  and  more  insistent.  The  din 
went  on  for  nearly  twenty  minutes,  and  he  was  alone  in  the 
trench.  He  fancied  he  hearr^  a  whistle  amidst  the  din.  Sud- 
denly one  of  the  soldiers  who  had  accompanied  him  came 
stealthily  round  the  corner,  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  eye 
old  Sam  did  not  like.  When  he  was  within  five  yards  the 
soldier  raised  his  rifle  and  pointed  it  at  Sam's  body.  Some 
instinct  impelled  the  old  man  at  that  instant  to  throw  himself 
forward  on  his  face.  As  he  did  so  he  was  aware  of  a  terrible 
explosion,  and  he  had  just  time  to  observe  the  soldier  falling  in 
a  heap  near  him,  and  then  he  lost  consciousness. 

His  consciousness  appeared  to  return  to  him  with  a  snap. 
He  was  lying  on  a  plank  in  a  building,  and  he  heard  some  one 
say: 

*'I  believe  the  old  boy  's  English/' 


STACY  AUMONIER  79 

He  looked  round.  There  were  a  lot  of  men  lying  there,  and 
others  in  khaki  and  white  overalls  were  busy  among  them.  He 
sat  up,  rubbed  his  head,  and  said : 

"Hi,  Mister,  where  be  I  now?" 

Some  one  laughed,  and  a  young  man  came  up  and  said : 

''Well,  old  man,  you  were  very  nearly  in  hell.     Who  are 

you?" 

Some  one  came  up,  and  two  of  them  were  discussing  him. 
One  of  them  said: 

"He  's  quite  all  right.  He  was  only  knocked  out.  Better 
take  him  in  to  the  colonel.     He  may  be  a  spy. 

The  other  came  up,  touched  his  shoulder,  and  remarked; 

"Can  you  walk,  Uncle?" 

He  replied: 

"Aye,  I  can  walk  all  roight." 

"That  's  an  old  sport!" 

The  young  man  took  his  arm  and  helped  him  out  of  the  room 
into  a  courtyard.  They  entered  another  room,  where  an 
elderly,  kind-faced  officer  was  seated  at  a  desk.  The  officer 
looked  up  and  exclaimed : 

' '  Good  God !  Bradshaw,  do  you  know  who  you  've  got 
there?" 

The  younger  one  said: 

"No.     Who,  sir?" 

"It  's  Paul  Jouperts!"  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

' '  Paul  Jouperts !     Great  Scott ! ' ' 

The  older  officer  addressed  himself  to  Sam.     He  said: 

"Well,  we  've  got  you  once  more,  Paul.  We  shall  have  to 
be  a  little  more  careful  this  time. ' ' 

The  young  officer  said : 

"Shall  I  detail  a  squad,  sir?" 

"We  can't  shoot  him  without  a  court-martial,"  replied  the 
kind-faced  senior. 

Then  Sam  interpolated: 

"Look  'ee  'ere,  sir,  I  'm  fair'  sick  of  all  this.  My  name 
bean  't  Paul.  My  name  's  Sam.  I  was  a-thinnin'  a  loine  o' 
turnips — " 

Both  officers  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  younger  one  said : 


80  A  SOURCE  OF  IKRITATION 

*'Good!  Good!  Isn't  it  amazing,  sir,  the  way  they  not 
only  learn  the  language,  but  even  take  the  trouble  to  learn 
a  dialect!" 

The  older  man  busied  himself  with  some  papers. 

''Well,  Sam,"  he  remarked,  "you  shall  be  given  a  chance  to 
prove  your  identity.  Our  methods  are  less  drastic  than  those 
of  your  Boche  masters.  What  part  of  England  are  you  sup- 
posed to  come  from?  Let  's  see  how  much  you  can  blutf  us 
with  your  topographical  knowledge. ' ' 

''I  was  a-thinnin'  a  loine  o'  turnips  this  mornin'  at  'alf- 
past  seven  on  Mr.  Hodge's  farm  at  Halvesham  when  one  o' 
these  'ere  airyplanes  come  down  among  the  swedes.  I  tells  'e 
to  get  clear  o'  that,  when  thje  feller  what  gets  out  o'  the  car 
'e  drahs  a  revowlver  and  'e  says,  'You  must  'company  I — '  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  the  senior  officer;  "that  's  all  very 
good.  Now  tell  me — where  is  Halvesham  ?  What  is  the  name 
of  the  local  vicar  ?     I  'm  sure  you  'd  know  that. ' ' 

Old  Sam  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I  sits  under  the  Reverend  David  Pryce,  Mister,  and  a  good, 
God-f  earin '  man  he  be.  I  took  him  a  cookin '  o '  runner  beans 
on'y  yesterday.  I  works  for  Mr.  Hodge,  what  owns  Greenway 
Manor  and  'as  a  stud-farm  at  Newmarket,  they  say. ' ' 

"Charles  Hodge?"  asked  the  young  officer. 

"Aye,  Charlie  Hodge.  You  write  and  ask  un  if  he  knows 
old  Sam  Gates." 

The  two  officers  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  older  one 
looked  at  Sam  more  closely. 

"It  's  very  extraordinary,"  he  remarked. 

"Everybody  knows  Charlie  Hodge,"  added  the  young 
officer. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  a  wave  of  genius  swept  over  old 
Sam.     He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  suddenly  jerked  out : 

"What  's  more,  I  can  tell  'ee  where  this  yere  Paul  is.  He  's 
actin'  a  gardener  in  a  convent  at — "  He  puckered  up  his 
brows,  fumbled  with  his  hat,  and  then  got  out,  "Mighteno." 

The  older  officer  gasped. 

"Mailleton-en-haut!  Good  God!  what  makes  you  say  that, 
old  man?" 


STACY  AUIVIONIER  81 

Sam  tried  to  give  an  account  of  his  experience  and  the 
things  he  had  heard  said  by  the  German  officers;  but  he  was 
getting  tired,  and  he  broke  off  in  the  middle  to  say : 

"Ye  haven't  a  bite  o'  somethin'  to  eat,  I  suppose,  Mister; 
or  a  glass  o'  beer?  I  usually  'as  my  dinner  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

Both  the  officers  laughed,  and  the  older  said : 

''Get  him  some  food,  Bradshaw,  and  a  bottle  of  beer  from 
the  mess.     We  '11  keep  this  old  man  here.     He  interests  me." 

While  the  younger  man  was  doing  this,  the  chief  pressed  a 
button  and  summoned  another  junior  officer. 

"Gateshead,"  he  remarked,  "ring  up  the  G.  H.  Q.  and 
instruct  them  to  arrest  the  gardener  in  that  convent  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  and  then  to  report." 

The  officer  saluted  and  went  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
tray  of  hot  food  and  a  large  bottle  of  beer  were  brought  to  the 
old  man,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  corner  of  the  room  to 
negotiate  this  welcome  compensation.  And  in  the  execution 
he  did  himself  and  his  county  credit.  In  the  meanwhile  the 
officers  were  very  busy.  People  were  coming  and  going  and 
examining  maps,  and  telephone  bells  were  ringing  furiously. 
They  did  not  disturb  old  Sam's  gastric  operations.  He 
cleaned  up  the  mess  tins  and  finished  the  last  drop  of  beer. 
The  senior  officer  found  time  to  offer  him  a  cigarette,  but  he 
replied : 

"Thank  'ee  kindly,  sir,  but  I  'd  rather  smoke  my  pipe." 

The  colonel  smiled  and  said: 

"Oh,  all  right;  smoke  away." 

He  lighted  up,  and  the  fumes  of  the  shag  permeated  the 
room.  Some  one  opened  another  window,  and  the  young 
officer  who  had  addressed  him  at  first  suddenly  looked  at  him 
and  exclaimed : 

"Innocent!  You  couldn't  get  shag  like  that  anywhere 
but  in  Norfolk." 

It  must  have  been  an  hour  later  when  another  officer  entered 
and  saluted. 

"Message  from  the  G.  H.  Q.,  sir,"  he  said. 

**Well?" 


82  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

"They  have  arrested  the  gardener  at  the  convent  of  St. 
Eloise,  and  they  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  the 
notorious  Paul  Jouperts. ' ' 

The  colonel  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  beamed.  He  came  over  to 
old  Sam  and  shook  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Gates,"  he  said,  ''you  are  an  old  brick.  You  will 
probably  hear  more  of  this.  You  have  probably  been  the 
means  of  delivering  something  very  useful  into  our  hands. 
Your  own  honar  is  vindicated.  A  loving  Government  will 
probably  award  you  five  shillings  or  a  Victoria  Cross  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.     In  the  meantime,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? ' ' 

Old  Sam  scratched  his  chin. 

"I  want  to  get  back  'ome,"  he  said. 

"Well,  even  that  might  be  arranged." 

"I  want  to  get  back  'ome  in  toime  for  tea." 

"What  time  do  you  have  tea?" 

"Foive  o'clock  or  thereabouts." 

"I  see." 

A  kindly  smile  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  colonel.  He  turned 
to  another  officer  standing  by  the  table  and  said : 

"Raikes,  is  any  one  going  across  this  afternoon  with 
dispatches  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  other  officer.  "Commander  Jen- 
nings is  leaving  at  three  o'clock." 

"You  might  ask  him  if  he  could  see  me." 

Within  ten  minutes  a  young  man  in  a  flight-commander's 
uniform  entered. 

"Ah,  Jennings,"  said  the  colonel,  "here  is  a  little  affair 
which  concerns  the  honor  of  the  British  army.  My  friend 
here,  Sam  Gates,  has  come  over  from  Halvesham,  in  Norfolk, 
in  order  to  give  us  valuable  information.  I  have  promised 
him  that  he  shall  get  home  to  tea  at  five  o'clock.  Can  you 
take  a  passenger  ? " 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  an  old  sport!  Yes,  I  expect 
I  can  manage  it.     Where  is  the  forsaken  place  ? ' ' 

A  large  ordnance-map  of  Norfolk  (which  had  been  captured 


STACY  AUMONIER  83 

from  a  German  officer)  was  produced,  and  the  young  man 
studied  it  closely. 

At  three  o'clock  precisely  old  Sam,  finding  himself  some- 
thing of  a  hero  and  quite  glad  to  escape  from  the  embarrass- 
ment which  this  position  entailed  upon  him,  once  more  sped 
skyward  in  a  '^dratted  airyplane. " 

At  twenty  minutes  to  five  he  landed  once  more  among  Mr. 
Hodge's  swedes.  The  breezy  young  airman  shook  hands  with 
him  and  departed  inland.  Old  Sam  sat  down  and  surveyed 
the  familiar  field  of  turnips. 

"A  noice  thing,  I  must  say!"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
looked  along  the  lines  of  unthinned  turnips.  He  still  had 
twenty  minutes,  and  so  he  went  slowly  along  and  completed 
a  line  which  he  had  begun  in  the  morning.  He  then  deliber- 
ately packed  up  his  dinner-things  and  his  tools  and  started 
out  for  home. 

As  he  came  round  the  corner  of  Stillway's  meadow  and  the 
cottage  came  in  view,  his  niece  stepped  out  of  the  copse  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm. 

''Well,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "is  there  any  noos?" 

It  was  then  that  old  Sam  really  lost  his  temper. 

''Noos!''  he  said.  ''Noos!  Drat  the  girl!  What  noos 
should  there  be?  Sixty-nine  year'  I  live  in  these  'ere  parts, 
hoein'  and  weedin'  and  thinnin',  and  mindin'  Charlie  Hodge's 
sheep.  Am  I  one  o'  these  'ere  story-book  folk  havin'  noos 
'appen  to  me  all  the  time?  Ain't  it  enough,  ye  silly,  dab- 
faced  zany,  to  earn  enough  to  buy  a  bite  o'  some 'at  to  eat 
and  a  glass  o'  beer  and  a  place  to  rest  a's  head  o 'night  without 
always  wantin'  noos,  noos,  noos !  I  tell  'ee  it  's  this  that  leads 
'ee  to  'alf  the  troubles  in  the  world.     Devil  take  the  noos!" 

And  turning  his  back  on  her,  he  went  fuming  up  the  hill. 


MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 

By  KUDYARD  KIPLING 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  coffee-planter  in  India  who 
wished  to  clear  some  forest  land  for  coffee-planting.  When  he 
had  cut  down  all  the  trees  and  burned  the  underwood  the 
stumps  still  remained.  Dynamite  is  expensive  and  slow  fire 
slow.  The  happy  medium  for  stump-clearing  is  the  lord  of  all 
beasts,  who  is  the  elephant.  He  will  either  push  the  stump  out 
of  the  ground  with  his  tusks,  if  he  has  any,  or  drag  it  out 
with  ropes.  The  planter,  therefore,  hired  elephants  by  ones 
and  twos  and  threes,  and  fell  to  work.  The  very  best  of  all  the 
elephants  belonged  to  the  very  worst  of  all  the  drivers  or 
mahouts;  and  the  superior  beast's  name  was  Moti  Guj.  He 
was  the  absolute  property  of  his  mahout,  which  would  never 
have  been  the  case  under  native  rule :  for  Moti  Guj  was  a 
creature  to  be  desired  by  kings;  and  his  name,  being  trans- 
lated, meant  the  Pearl  Elephant.  Because  the  British  gov- 
ernment was  in  the  land,  Deesa,  the  mahout,  enjoyed  his  prop- 
erty undisturbed.  He  was  dissipated.  When  he  had  made 
much  money  through  the  strength  of  his  elephant,  he  would 
get  extremely  drunk  and  give  Moti  Guj  a  beating  with  a  tent- 
peg  over  the  tender  nails  of  the  forefeet.  Moti  Guj  never 
trampled  the  life  out  of  Deesa  on  these  occasions,  for  he  knew 
that  after  the  beating  was  over,  Deesa  would  embrace  his  trunk 
and  weep  and  call  him  his  love  and  his  life  and  the  liver  of  his 
soul,  and  give  him  some  liquor.  Moti  Guj  was  very  fond  oi 
liquor — arrack  for  choice,  though  he  would  drink  palm-tree 
toddy  if  nothing  better  offered.  Then  Deesa  would  go  to  sleep 
between  Moti  Guj's  forefeet,  and  as  Deesa  generally  chose 

the  middle  of  the  public  road,  and  as  Moti  Guj  mounted  guard 

84 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  85 

over  him  and  would  not  permit  horse,  foot,  or  cart  to  pass  by, 
traffic  was  congested  till  Deesa  saw  fit  to  wake  up. 

There  was  no  sleeping  in  the  daytime  on  the  planter 's  clear- 
ing: the  wages  were  too  high  to  risk.  Deesa  sat  on  Moti 
Guj  's  neck  and  gave  him  orders,  while  Moti  Guj  rooted  up  the 
stumps — for  he  owned  a  magnificent  pair  of  tusks;  or  pulled 
at  the  end  of  a  rope — for  he  had  a  magnificent  pair  of  shoul- 
ders, while  Deesa  kicked  him  behind  the  ears  and  said  he  was 
the  king  of  elephants.  At  evening  time  Moti  Guj  would  wash 
down  his  three  hundred  pounds'  weight  of  green  food  with  a 
quart  of  arrack,  and  Deesa  would  take  a  share  and  sing  songs 
between  Moti  Guj's  legs  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Once 
a  week  Deesa  led  Moti  Guj  down  to  the  river,  and  Moti  Guj 
lay  on  his  side  luxuriously  in  the  shallows,  while  Deesa  went 
over  him  with  a  coir  swab  and  a  brick.  Moti  Guj  never 
mistook  the  pounding  blow  of  the  latter  for  the  smack  of  the 
former  that  warned  him  to  get  up  and  turn  over  on  the  other 
side.  Then  Deesa  would  look  at  his  feet,  examine  his  eyes, 
and  turn  up  the  fringes  of  his  mighty  ears  in  case  of  sores  or 
budding  ophthalmia.  After  inspection,  the  two  would  ' '  come 
up  with  a  song  from  the  sea, ' '  Moti  Guj  all  black  and  shining, 
waving  a  torn  tree  branch  twelve  feet  long  in  his  trunk,  and 
Deesa  knotting  up  his  own  long  wet  hair. 

It  was  a  peaceful,  well-paid  life  till  Deesa  felt  the  return  of 
the  desire  to  drink  deep.  He  wished  for  an  orgy.  The  little 
draughts  that  led  nowhere  were  taking  the  manhood  out  of 
him. 

He  went  to  the  planter,  and  ''My  mother's  dead,"  said  he, 
weeping. 

*'She  died  on  the  last  plantation  two  months  ago,  and  she 
died  once  before  that  when  you  were  working  for  me  last 
year,"  said  the  planter,  who  knew  something  of  the  ways  of 
nativedom. 

' '  Then  it  's  my  aunt,  and  she  was  just  the  same  as  a  mother 
to  me,"  said  Deesa,  weeping  more  than  ever.  ''She  has  left 
eighteen  small  children  entirely  without  bread,  and  it  is  I 
who  must  fill  their  little  stomachs,"  said  Deesa,  beating  his 
head  on  the  floor. 


86  MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 

''Who  brought  you  the  news?"  said  the  planter. 

''The  post,"  said  Deesa. 

"There  hasn't  been  a  post  here  for  the  past  week.  Get 
back  to  your  lines ! " 

"A  devastating  sickness  has  fallen  on  my  village,  and  all 
my  wives  are  dying,"  yelled  Deesa,  really  in  tears  this  time. 

"Call  Chihun,  who  comes  from  Deesa 's  village,"  said  the 
planter.     "Chihun,  has  this  man  got  a  wife?" 

"He!"  said  Chihun.  "No.  Not  a  woman  of  our  village 
would  look  at  him.     They  'd  sooner  marry  the  elephant." 

Chihun  snorted.     Deesa  wept  and  bellowed. 

"You  will  get  into  a  difficulty  in  a  minute,"  said  the 
planter.     ' '  Go  back  to  your  work ! ' ' 

"Now  I  will  speak  Heaven's  truth,"  gulped  Deesa,  with  an 
inspiration.  "I  haven't  been  drunk  for  two  months.  I  de- 
sire to  depart  in  order  to  get  properly  drunk  afar  off  and  dis- 
tant from  this  heavenly  plantation.  Thus  I  shall  cause  no 
trouble. '  ^ 

A  flickering  smile  crossed  the  planter's  face.  "Deesa," 
said  he,  "you  've  spoken  the  truth,  and  I  'd  give  you  leave  on 
the  spot  if  anything  could  be  done  with  Moti  Guj  while  you  're 
away.     You  know  that  he  will  only  obey  your  orders. ' ' 

"May  the  light  of  the  heavens  live  forty  thousand  years.  I 
shall  be  absent  but  ten  little  days.  After  that,  upon  my  faith 
and  honor  and  soul,  I  return.  As  to  the  inconsiderable  inter- 
val, have  I  the  gracious  permission  of  the  heaven-bom  to  call 
up  Moti  Gu j  ? " 

Permission  was  granted,  and  in  answer  to  Deesa 's  shrill  yell, 
the  mighty  tusker  swung  out  of  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  trees 
where  he  had  been  squirting  dust  over  himself  till  his  master 
should  return. 

"Light  of  my  heart,  protector  of  the  drunken,  mountain  of 
might,  give  ear ! ' '  said  Deesa,  standing  in  front  of  him. 

Moti  Guj  gave  ear,  and  saluted  with  his  trunk.  "I  am 
going  away,"  said  Deesa. 

Moti  Guj's  eyes  twinkled.  He  liked  jaunts  as  well  as  his 
master.  One  could  snatch  all  manner  of  nice  things  from  the 
roadside  then. 


RUDYAEX)  KIPLING  87 

"But  you,  you  fussy  old  pig,  must  stay  behind  and  work." 

The  twinkle  died  out  as  Moti  Guj  tried  to  look  delighted. 
He  hated  stump-hauling  on  the  plantation.     It  hurt  his  teeth. 

"I  shall  be  gone  for  ten  days,  0  delectable  one.  Hold  up 
your  near  forefoot  and  I  11  impress  the  fact  upon  it,  warty 
toad  of  a  dried  mud-puddle."  Deesa  took  a  tent-peg  and 
banged  Moti  Guj  ten  times  on  the  nails.  Moti  Guj  grunted 
and  shuffled  from  foot  to  foot. 

"Ten  days,"  said  Deesa,  "you  will  work  and  haul  and  root 
the  trees  as  Chihun  here  shall  order  you.  Take  up  Chihun 
and  set  him  on  your  neck!"  Moti  Guj  curled  the  tip  of  his 
trunk,  Chihun  put  his  foot  there  and  was  swung  on  to  the 
neck.  Deesa  handed  Chihun  the  heavy  ankus — the  iron  ele- 
phant goad. 

Chihun  thumped  Moti  Guj 's  bald  head  as  a  paver  thumpa 
a  curbstone. 

Moti  Guj  trumpeted. 

"Be  still,  hog  of  the  backwoods!  Chihun  's  your  mahout 
for  ten  days.  And  now  bid  me  good-by,  beast  after  mine  own 
heart.  Oh,  my  lord,  my  king !  Jewel  of  all  created  elephants, 
lily  of  the  herd,  preserve  your  honored  health;  be  virtuous. 
Adieu!" 

Moti  Guj  lapped  his  trunk  round  Deesa  and  swung  him  into 
the  air  twice.     This  was  his  way  of  bidding  him  good-by. 

"He  '11  work  now,"  said  Deesa  to  the  planter.  "Have  I 
leave  to  go  ? " 

The  planter  nodded,  and  Deesa  dived  into  the  woods.  Moti 
Guj  went  back  to  haul  stumps. 

Chihun  was  very  kind  to  him,  but  he  felt  unhappy  and 
forlorn  for  all  that.  Chihun  gave  him  a  ball  of  spices,  and 
tickled  him  under  the  chin,  and  Chihun 's  little  baby  cooed  to 
him  after  work  was  over,  and  Chihun 's  wife  called  him  a 
darling;  but  Moti  Guj  was  a  bachelor  by  instinct,  as  Deesa 
was.  He  did  not  understand  the  domestic  emotions.  He 
wanted  the  light  of  his  universe  back  again — the  drink  and 
the  drunken  slumber,  the  savage  beatings  and  the  savage 
caresses. 

None  the  less  he  worked  well,  and  the  planter  wondered. 


88  MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 

Deesa  had  wandered  along  the  roads  till  he  met  a  marriage 
procession  of  his  own  caste  and,  drinking,  dancing,  and  tip- 
pling, had  drifted  with  it  past  all  knowledge  of  the  lapse  of 
time. 

The  morning  of  the  eleventh  day  dawned,  and  there  re- 
turned no  Deesa.  Moti  Guj  was  loosed  from  his  ropes  for  the 
daily  stint.  He  swung  clear,  looked  round,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  began  to  walk  away,  as  one  having  business 
elsewhere. 

'  *  Hi !  ho !  Come  back,  you, ' '  shouted  Chihun.  ' '  Come  back 
and  put  me  on  your  neck,  misborn  mountain !  Return,  splen- 
dor of  the  hillsides!  Adornment  of  all  India,  heave  to,  or 
I  '11  bang  every  toe  off  your  fat  forefoot ! ' ' 

Moti  Guj  gurgled  gently,  but  did  not  obey.  Chihun  ran 
after  him  with  a  rope  and  caught  him  up.  Moti  Guj  put 
his  ears  forward,  and  Chihun  knew  what  that  meant,  though 
he  tried  to  carry  it  off  with  high  words. 

''None  of  your  nonsense  with  me,"  said  he.  "To  your 
pickets,  devil-son." 

"Hrrump!"  said  Moti  Guj,  and  that  was  all — that  and  the 
forebent  ears. 

Moti  Guj  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  chewed  a  branch  for 
a  toothpick,  and  strolled  about  the  clearing,  making  fun  of  the 
other  elephants,  who  had  just  set  to  work. 

Chihun  reported  the  state  of  affairs  to  the  planter,  who 
came  out  with  a  dog-whip  and  cracked  it  furiously.  Moti 
Guj  paid  the  white  man  the  compliment  of  charging  him 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across  the  clearing  and  "Hrrump- 
ing"  him  into  his  veranda.  Then  he  stood  outside  the  house 
chuckling  to  himself,  and  shaking  all  over  witli  the  fun  of  it, 
as  an  elephant  will. 

"We  '11  thrash  him,"  said  the  planter.  "He  shall  have  the 
finest  thrashing  ever  elephant  received.  Give  Kala  Nag  and 
Nazim  twelve  foot  of  chain  apiece,  and  tell  them  to  lay  on 
twenty  blows." 

Kala  Nag — which  means  Black  Snake — and  Nazim  were  two 
of  the  biggest  elephants  in  the  lines,  and  one  of  their  duties 


RUDYAKD  KIPLING  89 

was  to  administer  the  graver  punishments,  since  no  man  can 
beat  an  elephant  properly. 

They  took  the  whipping-chains  and  rattled  them  in  their 
trunks  as  they  sidled  up  to  Moti  Guj,  meaning  to  hustle  him 
between  them.  Moti  Guj  had  never,  in  all  his  life  of  thirty- 
nine  years,  been  whipped,  and  he  did  not  intend  to  begin  a  new 
experience.  So  he  waited,  waving  his  head  from  right  to  left, 
and  measuring  the  precise  spot  in  Kala  Nag's  fat  hide  where 
a  blunt  tusk  would  sink  deepest.  Kala  Nag  had  no  tusks ;  the 
chain  was  the  badge  of  his  authority;  but  for  all  that,  he 
swung  wide  of  Moti  Guj  at  the  last  minute,  and  tried  to  appear 
as  if  he  had  brought  the  chain  out  for  amusement.  Nazim 
turned  round  and  went  home  early.  He  did  not  feel  fighting 
fit  that  morning,  and  so  Moti  Guj  was  left  standing  alone  with 
his  ears  cocked. 

That  decided  the  planter  to  argue  no  more,  and  Moti  Guj 
rolled  back  to  his  inspection  of  the  clearing.  An  elephant  who 
will  not  work,  and  is  not  tied  up,  is  about  as  manageable  as 
an  eighty-one-ton  gun  loose  in  a  heavy  seaway.  He  slapped 
old  friends  on  the  back  and  asked  them  if  the  stumps  were 
coming  away  easily ;  he  talked  nonsense  concerning  labor  and 
the  inalienable  rights  of  elephants  to  a  long  ^'nooning";  and, 
wandering  to  and  fro,  he  thoroughly  demoralized  the  garden 
till  sundown,  when  he  returned  to  his  pickets  for  food. 

*'If  you  won't  work,  you  shan't  eat,"  said  Chihun  angrily. 
**You  're  a  wild  elephant,  and  no  educated  animal  at  all.  Go 
back  to  your  jungle." 

Chihun 's  little  brown  baby  was  rolling  on  the  floor  of  the 
hut,  and  stretching  out  its  fat  arms  to  the  huge  shadow  in 
the  doorway.  Moti  Guj  knew  well  that  it  was  the  dearest 
thing  on  earth  to  Chihun.  He  swung  out  his  trunk  with  a  fas- 
cinating crook  at  the  end,  and  the  brown  baby  threw  itself 
shouting  upon  it.  Moti  Guj  made  fast  and  pulled  up  till  the 
brown  baby  was  crowing  in  the  air  twelve  feet  above  his 
father's  head. 

"Great  Lord!"  said  Chihun.  ''Flour  cakes  of  the  best, 
twelve  in  number,  two  feet  across,  and  soaked  in  rum,  shall  be 


90  MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 

yours  on  the  instant,  and  two  hundred  pounds'  weight  of 
fresh-cut  young  sugar-cane  therewith.  Deign  only  to  put 
down  safely  that  insignificant  brat  who  is  my  heart  and  my 
life  to  me." 

Moti  Guj  tucked  the  brown  baby  comfortably  between  his 
forefeet,  that  could  have  knocked  into  toothpicks  all  Chihun's 
hut,  and  waited  for  his  food.  He  ate  it,  and  the  brown  baby 
crawled  away.  Moti  Guj  dozed,  and  thought  of  Deesa.  One 
of  many  mysteries  connected  with  the  elephant  is  that  his  huge 
body  needs  less  sleep  than  anything  else  that  lives.  Four  or 
five  hours  in  the  night  suffice — two  just  before  midnight, 
lying  down  on  one  side;  two  just  after  one  o'clock,  lying  down 
on  the  other.  The  rest  of  the  silent  hours  are  filled  with 
eating  and  fidgeting  and  long  grumbling  soliloquies. 

At  midnight,  therefore,  Moti  Guj  strode  out  of  his  pickets, 
for  a  thought  had  come  to  him  that  Deesa  might  be  lying 
drunk  somewhere  in  the  dark  forest  with  none  to  look  after 
him.  So  all  that  night  he  chased  through  the  undergrowth, 
blowing  and  trumpeting  and  shaking  his  ears.  He  went  down 
to  the  river  and  blared  across  the  shallows  where  Deesa  used 
to  wash  him,  and  there  was  no  answer.  He  could  nr^t  find 
Deesa,  but  he  disturbed  all  the  other  elephants  in  tho  lines, 
and  nearly  frightened  to  death  some  gypsies  in  the  woods. 

At  dawn  Deesa  returned  to  the  plantation.  He  hjid  been 
very  drunk  indeed,  and  he  expected  to  get  into  trouble  for 
outstaying  his  leave.  He  drew  a  long  breath  when  he  saw 
that  the  bungalow  and  the  plantation  were  still  uninjured,  for 
he  knew  something  of  Moti  Guj 's  temper,  and  reported  himself 
with  many  lies  and  salaams.  Moti  Guj  had  g«  ^ne  to  his  pickets 
for  breakfast.     The  night  exercise  had  made  him  hungry. 

''Call  up  your  beast,"  said  the  planter,  a'Ad  Deesa  shouted 
in  the  mysterious  elephant  language,  that  some  mahouts 
believe  came  from  China  at  the  birth  of  the  world,  when  ele- 
phants and  not  men  were  masters.  M)ti  Guj  heard  and  came. 
Elephants  do  not  gallop.  They  move  from  places  at  varying 
rates  of  speed.  If  an  elephant  wished  to  catch  an  express 
train  he  could  not  gallop,  but  he  could  catch  the  train.  So 
Moti  Guj  was  at  the  planter's  door  almost  before  Chihun 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  91 

noticed  that  he  had  left  his  pickets.  He  fell  into  Deesa's 
arms  trumpeting  with  joy,  and  the  man  and  beast  wept  and 
slobbered  over  each  other,  and  handled  each  other  from  head  to 
heel  to  see  that  no  harm  had  befallen. 

''Now  we  will  get  to  work,"  said  Deesa.  ''Lift  me  up, 
my  son  and  my  joy." 

Moti  Guj  swung  him  up  and  the  two  went  to  the  coffee- 
clearing  to  look  for  difficult  stumps. 

The  planter  was  too  astonished  to  be  very  angry. 


GULLIVER  THE  GEEAT 

By  WALTER  A.  DYER 

It  was  a  mild  evening  in  early  spring,  and  the  magnolias 
were  in  bloom.  We  motored  around  the  park,  turned  up 
a  side  street,  and  finally  came  to  a  throbbing  standstill  be- 
fore the  Churchwarden  Club. 

There  was  nothing  about  its  exterior  to  indicate  that  it 
was  a  clubhouse  at  all,  but  within  there  was  an  indefinable 
atmosphere  of  early  Victorian  comfort.  There  was  some- 
thing about  it  that  suggested  Mr.  Pickwick.  Old  prints  of 
horses  and  ships  and  battles  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  the 
oak  was  dark  and  old.  There  seemed  to  be  no  decorative 
scheme  or  keynote,  and  yet  the  atmosphere  was  utterly  dis- 
tinctive. It  was  my  first  visit  to  the  Churchwarden  Club, 
of  which  my  quaint,  old-fashioned  Uncle  Ford  had  long  been 
a  member,  and  I  was  charmed. 

We  dined  in  the  rathskeller,  the  walls  of  which  were  com- 
pletely covered  with  long  churchwarden  pipes,  arranged  in 
the  most  intricate  and  marvelous  patterns;  and  after  our 
mutton-chop  and  ale  and  plum  pudding,  we  filled  with  the 
choicest  of  tobaccos  the  pipes  which  the  old  major-domo 
brought  us. 

Then  came  Jacob  R.  Enderby  to  smoke  with  us. 

Tall  and  spare  he  was,  with  long,  straight,  black  hair,  large, 
aquiline  nose,  and  piercing  eyes.  I  disgraced  myself  by  star- 
ing at  him.  I  didn't  know  that  such  a  man  existed  in  New 
York,  and  yet  I  could  n  't  decide  whether  his  habitat  should 
be  Arizona  or  Cape  Cod. 

Enderby  and  Uncle  Ford  were  deep  in  a  discussion  of  the 
statesmanship  of  James  G.  Blaine,  when  a  waiter  summoned 
my  uncle  to  the  telephone. 

1  neglected  to  state  that  my  uncle,  in  his  prosaic  hours, 

92 


WALTER  A.  DYER  93 

is  a  physician ;  and  this  was  a  call.  I  knew  it  the  moment  I 
saw  the  waiter  approaching.  I  was  disappointed  and  dis- 
gusted. 

Uncle  Ford  saw  this  and  laughed. 

''Cheer  up!"  said  he.  "You  needn't  come  with  me  to 
visit  the  sick.  I  '11  be  back  in  an  hour,  and  meanwhile  Mr. 
Enderby  will  take  care  of  you;  won't  you,  Jake?" 

For  answer  Enderby  arose,  and  refilling  his  pipe  took  me 
by  the  arm,  while  my  uncle  got  into  his  overcoat.  As  he 
passed  us  on  the  way  out  he  whispered  in  my  ear : 

''Talk  about  dogs." 

I  heard  and  nodded. 

Enderby  led  me  to  the  lounge  or  loafing-room,  an  oak- 
paneled  apartment  in  the  rear  of  the  floor  above,  with  huge 
leather  chairs  and  a  seat  in  the  bay  window.  Save  for  a 
gray-haired  old  chap  dozing  over  a  copy  of  Simplicissimiis, 
the  room  was  deserted. 

But  no  sooner  had  Enderby  seated  himself  on  the  window- 
seat  than  there  was  a  rush  and  a  commotion,  and  a  short,  glad 
bark,  and  Nubbins,  the  steward's  bull-terrier,  bounded  in  and 
landed  at  Enderby 's  side  with  canine  expressions  of  great 

joy. 

I  reached  forward  to  pat  him,  but  he  paid  absolutely  no  at- 
tention to  me. 

At  last  his  wriggling  subsided,  and  he  settled  down  with 
his  head  on  Enderby 's  knee,  the  picture  of  content.  Then  I 
recalled  my  uncle's  parting  injunction. 

"Friend  of  yours?"  I  suggested. 

Enderby  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "we  're  friends,  I  guess. 
And  the  funny  part  of  it  is  that  he  doesn't  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  any  one  else  except  his  master.  They  all  act  that  way 
with  me,  dogs  do."     And  he  pulled  Nubbins 's  stubby  ears. 

"Natural  attraction,  I  suppose,"  said  1. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  he  answered,  with  the  modest  frankness  of  a 
big  man.  "It  's  a  thing  hard  to  explain,  though  there  's  a 
sort  of  reason  for  it  in  my  case." 

I  pushed  toward  him  a  little  tobacco-laden  teak-wood  stand 
hopefully.     He  refilled  and  lighted. 


94  GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

''It  's  an  extraordinary  thing,  even  so,"  he  said,  puffing. 
"Every  dog  nowadays  seems  to  look  upon  me  as  his  long- 
lost  master,  but  it  wasn't  always  so.  I  hated  dogs  and  they 
hated  me." 

Not  wishing  to  say  "Really"  or  "Indeed"  to  this  big,  out- 
door man,  I  simply  grunted  my  surprise. 

"Yes,  we  were  born  enemies.  More  than  that,  I  was  afraid 
of  dogs.  A  little  fuzzy  toy  dog,  ambling  up  to  me  in  a  room 
full  of  company,  with  his  tail  wagging,  gave  me  the  shudders. 
I  could  n  't  touch  the  beast.  And  as  for  big  dogs  outdoors,  I 
feared  them  like  the  plague.  I  would  go  blocks  out  of  my 
way  to  avoid  one. 

"I  don't  remember  being  particularly  cowardly  about  other 
things,  but  I  just  could  n't  help  this.  It  was  in  my  blood,  for 
some  reason  or  other.  It  was  the  bane  of  my  existence.  I 
couldn't  see  what  the  brutes  were  put  into  the  world  for,  or 
how  any  one  could  have  anything  to  do  with  them. 

"And  the  dogs  reciprocated.  They  disliked  and  distrusted 
me.  The  most  docile  old  Brunos  would  growl  and  show  their 
teeth  when  I  came  near." 

"Did  the  change  come  suddenly?"  I  asked. 

"Quite.  It  was  in  1901.  I  accepted  a  commission  from  an 
importing  and  trading  company  to  go  to  the  Philippines  to 
do  a  little  quiet  exploring,  and  spent  four  months  in  the 
sickly  iDlace.  Then  I  got  the  fever,  and  when  I  recovered 
I  could  n  't  get  out  of  there  too  soon. 

"I  reached  Manila  just  in  time  to  see  the  mail  steamer 
disappearing  around  the  point,  and  I  was  mad.  There  would 
be  another  in  six  days,  but  I  could  n't  wait.  I  w^as  just  crazy 
to  get  back  home. 

"I  made  inquiries  and  learned  of  an  old  tramp  steamer, 
named  the  Old  Sqiiaiv,  making  ready  to  leave  for  Honolulu 
on  the  following  day  with  a  cargo  of  hemp  and  stuff,  and  a 
bunch  of  Moros  for  some  show  in  the  States,  and  I  booked 
passage  on  that. 

' '  She  was  the  worst  old  tub  you  ever  saw.  I  did  n  't  learn 
much  about  her,  but  I  verily  believe  her  to  have  been  a  con- 


WALTER  A.  DYER  95 

demned  excursion  boat.     She  would  n  't  have  been  allowed  to 
run  to  Coney  Island. 

"She  was  battered  and  unpainted,  and  she  wallowed  hor- 
ribly. I  don't  believe  she  could  have  reached  Honolulu  much 
before  the  next  regular  boat,  but  I  couldn't  wait,  and  I  took 
her. 

"I  made  myself  as  comfortable  as  possible,  bribed  the  cook 
to  insure  myself  against  starvation,  and  swung  a  hammock 
on  the  forward  deck  as  far  as  possible  from  the  worst  of  the 
vile  smells. 

''But  we  had  n't  lost  sight  of  Manila  Bay  when  I  discovered 
that  there  was  a  dog  aboard — and  such  a  dog !  I  had  never 
seen  one  that  sent  me  into  such  a  panic  as  this  one,  and  he  had 
free  range  of  the  ship.  A  Great  Dane  he  was,  named  Gulliver, 
and  he  was  the  pride  of  the  captain's  rum-soaked  heart. 

"With  all  my  fear,  I  realized  he  was  a  magnificent  animal, 
but  I  looked  on  him  as  a  gigantic  devil.  Without  exception, 
he  was  the  biggest  dog  I  ever  saw,  and  as  muscular  as  a  lion. 
He  lacked  some  points  that  show  judges  set  store  by,  but  he 
had  the  size  and  the  build. 

"I  have  seen  Vohl's  Vulcan  and  the  Wurtemburg  breed,  but 
they  were  fox-terriers  compared  with  Gulliver.  His  tail  was 
as  big  around  as  my  arm,  and  the  cook  lived  in  terror  of  his 
getting  into  the  galley  and  wagging  it ;  and  he  had  a  mouth 
that  looked  to  me  like  the  crater  of  Mauna  Loa,  and  a  voice 
that  shook  the  planking  when  he  spoke. 

"I  first  caught  sight  of  him  appearing  from  behind  a  huge 
coil  of  cordage  in  the  stern.  He  stretched  and  yawned,  and 
I  nearly  died  of  fright. 

"I  caught  up  a  belaying-pin,  though  little  good  that  would 
have  done  me.  I  think  he  saw  me  do  it,  and  doubtless  he 
set  me  down  for  an  enemy  then  and  there. 

"We  were  well  out  of  the  harbor,  and  there  was  no  turn- 
ing back,  but  I  would  have  given  my  right  hand  to  be  of¥  that 
boat.  I  fully  expected  him  to  eat  me  up,  and  I  slept  with  that 
belaying-pin  sticking  into  my  ribs  in  the  hammock,  and  with 
my  revolver  loaded  and  handy. 


96  GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

''Fortunately,  Gulliver's  dislike  for  me  took  the  form  of 
sublime  contempt.  He  knew  1  was  afraid  of  him,  and  he 
despised  me  for  it.  He  was  a  great  pet  with  the  captain  and 
crew,  and  even  the  Moros  treated  him  with  admiring  respect 
when  they  were  allowed  on  deck.  I  couldn't  understand  it. 
I  would  as  soon  have  made  a  pet  of  a  hungry  boa-constrictor. 

"On  the  third  day  out  the  poor  old  boiler  burst  and  the 
Old  Squaw  caught  fire.  She  was  dry  and  rotten  inside  and 
she  burned  like  tinder.  No  attempt  was  made  to  extinguish 
the  flames,  which  got  into  the  hemp  in  the  hold  in  short  order. 

''The  smoke  was  stifling,  and  in  a  jiffy  all  hands  were 
struggling  with  the  boats.  The  Moros  came  tumbling  up 
from  below  and  added  to  the  confusion  with  their  terrified 
yells. 

"The  davits  were  old  and  rusty,  and  the  men  were  soon 
fighting  among  themselves.  One  boat  dropped  stern  fore- 
most, filled,  and  sank  immediately,  and  the  Old  Squaw  her- 
self was  visibly  settling. 

"I  saw  there  was  no  chance  of  getting  away  in  the  boats, 
and  I  recalled  a  life-raft  on  the  deck  forward  near  my  ham- 
mock. It  was  a  sort  of  catamaran — a  double  platform  on  a 
pair  of  hollow,  water-tight,  cylindrical  buoys.  It  wasn't 
twenty  feet  long  and  about  half  as  broad,  but  it  would  have 
to  do.  I  fancy  it  was  a  forgotten  relic  of  the  old  excursion- 
boat  days. 

"There  was  no  time  to  lose,  for  the  Old  Squaw  was  bound 
to  sink  presently.  Besides,  I  was  aft  with  the  rest,  and  the 
flames  were  licking  up  the  deck  and  running-gear  in  the  waist 
of  the  boat. 

"The  galley,  which  was  amidships  near  the  engine-room, 
had  received  the  full  force  of  the  explosion,  and  the  cook  lay 
moaning  in  the  lee  scuppers  with  a  small  water-cask  thump- 
ing against  his  chest.  I  could  n't  stop  to  help  the  man,  but  I 
did  kick  the  cask  away. 

"It  seemed  to  be  nearly  full,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
T  should  need  it.  I  glanced  quickly  around,  and  luckily 
found  a  tin  of  biscuits  that  had  also  been  blown  out  of  the 
galley.     I  picked  this  up,  and  rolling  the  cask  of  water  ahead 


WALTER  A.  DYER  ^7 

of  me  as  rapidly  as  I  could,  I  made  my  way  through  the  hot, 
stifling  smoke  to  the  bow  of  the  boat. 

''I  kicked  at  the  life-raft;  it  seemed  to  be  sound,  and  I 
lashed  the  biscuits  and  water  to  it.  I  also  threw  on  a  coil  of 
rope  and  a  piece  of  sail-cloth.  I  saw  nothing  else  about 
that  could  possibly  be  of  any  value  to  me.  I  abandoned  my 
trunk  for  fear  it  would  only  prove  troublesome. 

"Then  I  hacked  the  raft  loose  with  my  knife  and  shoved 
it  over  to  the  bulwark.  Apparently  no  one  had  seen  me,  for 
there  was  no  one  else  forward  of  the  sheet  of  flame  that  now 
cut  the  boat  in  two. 

"The  raft  was  a  mighty  heavy  affair,  but  I  managed  to 
raise  one  end  to  the  rail.  I  don't  believe  I  would  ever  have 
been  able  to  heave  it  over  under  any  circumstances,  but  I 
did  n't  have  to. 

"I  felt  a  great  upheaval,  and  the  prow  of  the  Old  Squaw 
went  up  into  the  air.  I  grabbed  the  ropes  that  I  had  lashed 
the  food  on  with  and  clung  to  the  raft.  The  deck  became  al- 
most perpendicular,  and  it  was  a  miracle  that  the  raft  didn't 
slide  down  with  me  into  the  flames.  Somehow  it  stuck  where 
it  was. 

"Then  the  boat  sank  with  a  great  roar,  and  for  about  a 
thousand  years,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  was  under  water.  I  did  n't 
do  anything.     I  couldn't  think. 

' '  I  was  only  conscious  of  a  tremendous  weight  of  water  and 
a  feeling  that  I  would  burst  open.  Instinct  alone  made  me 
cling  to  the  raft. 

"When  it  finally  brought  me  to  the  surface  I  was  as  nearly 
dead  as  I  care  to  be.  I  lay  there  on  the  thing  in  a  half-con- 
scious condition  for  an  endless  time.  If  my  life  had  depended 
on  my  doing  something,  I  would  have  been  lost. 

"Then  gradually  I  came  to,  and  began  to  spit  out  salt 
water  and  gasp  for  breath.  I  gathered  my  wits  together  and 
sat  up.  My  hands  were  absolutely  numb,  and  I  had  to  loosen 
the  grip  of  my  fingers  with  the  help  of  my  toes.  Odd  sensa- 
tion. 

"Then  I  looked  about  me.  My  biscuits  and  water  and 
rope  were  safe,  but  the  sail-cloth  had  vanished.     I  remember 


98  GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

that  this  annoyed  me  hugely  at  the  time,  though  I  don 't  know 
what  earthly  good  it  would  have  been. 

"The  sea  was  fairly  calm,  and  I  could  see  all  about.  Not 
a  human  being  was  visible,  only  a  few  floating  bits  of  wreck- 
age. Every  man  on  board  must  have  gone  down  with  the 
ship  and  drowned,  except  myself. 

"Then  I  caught  sight  of  something  that  made  my  heart 
stand  still.  The  huge  head  of  Gulliver  was  coming  rapidly 
toward  me  through  the  water! 

"The  dog  was  swimming  strongly,  and  must  have  leaped 
from  the  Old  Squaw  before  she  sank.  My  raft  was  the 
only  thing  afloat  large  enough  to  hold  him,  and  he  knew 
it. 

"I  drew  my  revolver,  but  it  was  soaking  wet  and  useless. 
Then  I  sat  down  on  the  cracker  tin  and  gritted  my  teeth 
and  waited.  I  had  been  alarmed,  I  must  admit,  when  the 
boiler  blew  up  and  the  panic  began,  but  that  was  nothing 
to  the  terror  that  seized  me  now. 

"Here  I  was  all  alone  on  the  top  of  the  Pacific  Ocean  with 
a  horrible  demon  making  for  me  as  fast  as  he  could  swim. 
My  mind  was  benumbed,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing  to  do. 
I  trembled  and  my  teeth  rattled.  I  prayed  for  a  shark,  but 
no  shark  came. 

' '  Soon  Gulliver  reached  the  raft  and  placed  one  of  his  fore- 
paws  on  it  and  then  the  other.  The  top  of  it  stood  six  or 
eight  inches  above  the  water,  and  it  took  a  great  effort  for 
the  dog  to  raise  himself.  I  wanted  to  kick  him  back,  but  I 
didn't  dare  to  move. 

"Gulliver  struggled  mightily.  Again  and  again  he  reared 
his  great  shoulders  above  the  sea,  only  to  be  cast  back,  scratch- 
ing and  kicking,  at  a  lurch  of  the  raft. 

"Finally  a  wave  favored  him,  and  he  caught  the  edge  of 
the  under  platform  with  one  of  his  hind  feet.  With  a  stu- 
pendous  eft'ort  he  heaved  his  huge  bulk  over  the  edg«  and  lay 
sprawling  at  my  feet,  panting  and  trembling." 

Enderby  paused  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  with  a  big 
sigh,  as  though  the  recital  of  his  story  had  brought  back 
some  of  the  horror  of  his  remarkable  experience. 


WALTER  A.  DYER  99 

Nubbins  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  then  snuggled  closer 
to  his  friend,  while  Enderby  smoothed  the  white  head. 

"^ell,"  he  continued,  "there  we  were.  You  can't  possibly 
imagine  how  I  felt  unless  you,  too,  have  been  afflicted  with 
dog-fear.  It  was  awful.  And  I  hated  the  brute  so.  I  could 
have  torn  him  limb  from  limb  if  I  had  had  the  strength. 
But  he  was  vastly  more  powerful  than  I.  I  could  only  fear 
him. 

^'By  and  by  he  got  up  and  shook  himself.  I  cowered  on 
my  cracker-tin,  but  he  only  looked  at  me  contemptuously,  went 
to  the  other  end  of  the  raft,  and  lay  down  to  wait  patiently 
for  deliverance. 

"We  remained  this  way  until  nightfall.  The  sea  was 
comparatively  calm,  and  we  seemed  to  be  drifting  but  slowly. 
We  were  in  the  path  of  ships  likely  to  be  passing  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  I  would  have  been  hopeful  of  the  outcome  if  it 
had  not  been  for  my  feared  and  hated  companion. 

"I  began  to  feel  faint,  and  opened  the  cracker-tin.  The 
biscuits  were  wet  with  salt  water,  but  I  ate  a  couple,  and 
left  the  cover  of  the  tin  open  to  dry  them.  Gulliver  looked 
around,  and  I  shut  the  tin  hastily.  But  the  dog  never  moved. 
He  was  not  disposed  to  ask  any  favors.  By  kicking  the  sides 
of  the  cask  and  prying  with  my  knife,  I  managed  to  get  the 
bung  out  and  took  a  drink.  Then  I  settled  myself  on  the  raft 
with  my  back  against  the  cask,  and  longed  for  a  smoke. 

"The  gentle  motion  of  the  raft  produced  a  lulling  effect  on 
my  exhausted  nerves,  and  I  began  to  nod,  only  to  awake  with 
a  start,  with  fear  gripping  at  my  heart.  I  dared  not  sleep.  I 
don't  know  what  I  thought  Gulliver  would  do  to  me,  for  I 
did  not  understand  dogs,  but  I  felt  that  I  must  watch  him  con> 
stantly.  In  the  starlight  I  could  see  that  his  eyes  were  open. 
Gulliver  was  watchful  too. 

"All  night  long  I  kept  up  a  running  fight  with  drowsiness. 
I  dozed  at  intervals,  but  never  for  long  at  a  time.  It  was  a 
horrible  night,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  longed  for  day  and 
welcomed  it  when  it  came. 

"I  must  have  slept  toward  dawn,  for  I  suddenly  became 
conscious  of  broad  daylight.     I  roused  myself,  stood  up,  and 


I 
100  GULLIVER  THE  GREAT  i 

swung  my  arms  and  legs  to  stir  up  circulation,  for  the  night        i 
had  been  chilly.     Gulliver  arose,  too,  and  stood  silently  watch- 
ing me  until  I  ceased  for  fear.     When  he  had  settled  down        i 
again  I  got  my  breakfast  out  of  the  cracker-tin.     Gulliver  was        ■ 
restless,  and  was  evidently  interested. 

"  'He  must  be  hungry,'  I  thought,  and  then  a  new  fear  i 
caught  me.  I  had  only  to  wait  until  he  became  very  hungry  { 
and  then  he  would  surely  attack  me.  I  concluded  that  it  j 
would  be  wiser  to  feed  him,  and  I  tossed  him  a  biscuit.  '; 

*'I  expected  to  see  him  grab  it  ravenously,  and  wondered  ' 
as  soon  as  I  had  thrown  it  if  the  taste  of  food  would  only  i 
serve  to  make  him  more  ferocious.  But  at  first  he  would  1 
not  touch  it.  He  only  lay  there  with  his  great  head  on  his 
paws  and  glowered  at  me.  Distrust  was  plainly  visible  in  his  ! 
face.  I  had  never  realized  before  that  a  dog's  face  could  ex-  ] 
press  the  subtler  emotions.  ; 

''His  gaze  fascinated  me,  and  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  ; 
from  his.  The  bulk  of  him  was  tremendous  as  he  lay  there,  , 
and  I  noticed  the  big,  swelling  muscles  of  his  jaw.  At  last  he  j 
arose,  sniffed  suspiciously  at  the  biscuit,  and  looked  up  at  j 
me  again. 

"  'It  's  all  right;  eat  it!'  I  cried. 

"The  sound  of  my  own  voice  frightened  me.  I  had  not  in- 
tended to  speak  to  him.  But  in  spite  of  my  strained  tone  he 
seemed  somewhat  reassured. 

"He  took  a  little  nibble,  and  then  swallowed  the  biscuit 
after  one  or  two  crunches,  and  looked  up  expectantly.  I  threw 
him  another  and  he  ate  that. 

"  'That  's  all,'  said  I.     'We  must  be  sparing  of  them.' 

"I  was  amazed  to  discover  how  perfectly  he  understood. 
He  lay  down  again  and  licked  his  chops. 

"Late  in  the  forenoon  I  saw  a  line  of  smoke  on  the  horizon, 
and  soon  a  steamer  hove  into  view.  I  stood  up  and  waved  my 
coat  frantically,  but  to  no  purpose.  Gulliver  stood  up  and 
looked  from  me  to  the  steamer,  apparently  much  interested. 

"  'Too  far  off,'  I  said  to  Gulliver.  'I  hope  the  next  one 
will  come  nearer.' 

"At  midday  I  dined,  and  fed  Gulliver.     This  time  he  took 


Hi 

i  i 


WALTER  A.  DYER  ICi 

the  two  biscuits  quite  without  reserve  and  whacked  his  great 
tail  against  the  raft.  It  seemed  to  me  that  his  attitude  was 
less  hostile,  and  I  wondered  at  it. 

"When  I  took  my  drink  from  the  cask,  Gulliver  showed 
signs  of  interest. 

I  suppose  dogs  get  thirsty,  too,'  I  said  aloud. 
Gulliver  rapped  with  his  tail.     I  looked  about  for  some 
sort  of  receptacle,  and  finally  pulled  off  my  shoe,  filled  it  with 
water,  and  shoved  it  toward  him  with  my  foot.     He  drank 
gratefully. 

"During  the  afternoon  I  sighted  another  ship,  but  it  was 
too  distant  to  notice  me.  However,  the  sea  remained  calm  and 
I  did  not  despair. 

* '  After  we  had  had  supper,  I  settled  back  against  my  cask, 
resolved  to  keep  awake,  for  still  I  did  not  trust  Gulliver.  The 
sun  set  suddenly  and  the  stars  came  out,  and  I  found  myself 
strangely  lonesome.  It  seemed  as  though  I  had  been  alone  out 
there  on  the  Pacific  for  weeks.  The  miles  and  miles  of  heav- 
ing waters,  almost  on  a  level  with  my  eye,  were  beginning  to 
get  on  my  nerves.  I  longed  for  some  one  to  talk  to,  and 
wished  I  had  dragged  the  half-breed  cook  along  with  me  for 
company.     I  sighed  loudly,  and  Gulliver  raised  his  head. 

"  'Lonesome  out  here,  isn't  it?'  I  said,  simply  to  hear  the 
sound  of  my  own  voice. 

"Then  for  the  first  time  Gulliver  spoke.  He  made  a  deep 
sound  in  his  throat,  but  it  was  n  't  a  growl,  and  with  all  my 
ignorance  of  dog  language  I  knew  it. 

"Then  I  began  to  talk.  I  talked  about  everything — the 
people  back  home  and  all  that — and  Gulliver  listened.  I  know 
more  about  dogs  now,  and  I  know  that  the  best  way  to  make 
friends  with  a  dog  is  to  talk  to  him.  He  can 't  talk  back,  but 
he  can  understand  a  heap  more  than  you  think  he  can. 

"Finally  Gulliver,  who  had  kept  his  distance  all  this  time, 
arose  and  came  toward  me.  My  words  died  in  my  throat. 
What  was  he  going  to  do  ?  To  my  immense  relief  he  did  noth- 
ing but  sink  down  at  my  feet  with  a  grunt  and  curl  his  huge 
body  into  a  semicircle.  He  had  dignity,  Gulliver  had.  He 
wanted  to  be  friendly,  but  he  would  not  presume.     However, 


•102  .GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

I  had  lost  interest  in  conversation,  and  sat  watching  him  and 
wondering. 

' '  In  spite  of  my  firm  resolution,  I  fell  asleep  at  length  from 
sheer  exhaustion,  and  never  woke  until  daybreak.  The  sky 
was  clouded  and  our  craft  was  pitching.  Gulliver  was  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  raft,  looking  at  me  in  evident  alarm. 
I  glanced  over  my  shoulder,  and  the  blackness  of  the  horizon 
told  me  that  a  storm  was  coming,  and  coming  soon. 

'*I  made  fast  our  slender  provender,  tied  the  end  of  a  line 
about  my  own  waist  for  safety,  and  waited. 

*'In  a  short  time  the  storm  struck  us  in  all  its  tropical  fury. 
The  raft  pitched  and  tossed,  now  high  up  at  one  end,  and  now 
at  the  other,  and  sometimes  almost  engulfed  in  the  waves. 

* '  Gulliver  was  having  a  desperate  time  to  keep  aboard.  His 
blunt  claws  slipped  on  the  wet  deck  of  the  raft,  and  he  fell 
and  slid  about  dangerously.  The  thought  flashed  across  my 
mind  that  the  storm  might  prove  to  be  a  blessing  in  disguise, 
and  that  I  might  soon  be  rid  of  the  brute. 

"As  I  clung  there  to  the  lashings,  I  saw  him  slip  down  to 
the  further  end  of  the  raft,  his  hind  quarters  actually  over 
the  edge.  A  wave  swept  over  him,  but  still  he  clung,  panting 
madly.  Then  the  raft  righted  itself  for  a  moment,  and  as 
he  hung  there  he  gave  me  a  look  I  shall  never  forget — a  look 
of  fear,  of  pleading,  of  reproach,  and  yet  of  silent  courage. 
And  with  all  my  stupidity  I  read  that  look.  Somehow  it 
told  me  that  I  was  the  master,  after  all,  and  he  the  dog.  I 
could  not  resist  it.  Cautiously  I  raised  myself  and  loosened 
the  spare  rope  I  had  saved.  As  the  raft  tipped  the  other 
way  Gulliver  regained  his  footing  and  came  sliding  toward 
me. 

''Quickly  I  passed  the  rope  around  his  body,  and  as  the 
raft  dived  again  I  hung  on  to  the  rope  with  one  hand,  retain- 
ing my  own  hold  with  the  other.  Gulliver's  great  weight 
nearly  pulled  my  arm  from  its  socket,  but  he  helped  mightily, 
and  during  the  next  moment  of  equilibrium  I  took  another 
turn  about  his  body  and  made  the  end  of  the  rope  fast. 

''The  storm  passed  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  and  though 
it  left  us  drenched  and  exhausted,  we  were  both  safe. 


,     1,'     1  •>    1  ^     '       '      ->,     1   \i    :>     1,1 

1  1  lllrj^l 


Again  and  again  Gulliver  gave  voice,  deep,  full,  powerful 


WALTER  A.  DYER  103 

''That  evening  Gulliver  crept  close  to  me  as  I  talked,  and 
I  let  him.     Loneliness  will  make  a  man  do  strange  things. 

''On  the  fifth  day,  when  our  provisions  were  nearly  gone, 
and  I  had  begun  to  feel  the  sinking  dullness  of  despair,  I 
sighted  a  steamer  apparently  coming  directly  toward  us.  In- 
stantly  I  felt  new  life  in  my  limbs  and  around  my  heart,  and 
while  the  boat  was  yet  miles  away  I  began  to  shout  and  to 
wave  my  coat. 

"  '  I  believe  she  's  coming,  old  man ! '  I  cried  to  Gulliver ; 
'I  believe  she  's  coming!' 

"I  soon  wearied  of  this  foolishness  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
Gulliver  came  close  and  sat  beside  me,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  put  my  hand  on  him.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  rapped 
furiously  with  his  tail.  I  patted  his  head — a  little  gingerly, 
I  must  confess. 

"It  was  a  big,  smooth  head,  and  it  felt  solid  and  strong.  I 
passed  my  hand  down  his  neck,  his  back,  his  flanks.  He 
seemed  to  quiver  with  joy.  He  leaned  his  huge  body  against 
me.     Then  he  bowed  his  head  and  licked  my  shoe. 

"A  feeling  of  intense  shame  and  unworthiness  came  over 
me,  with  the  realization  of  how  completely  I  had  misunder- 
stood him.  Why  should  this  great,  powerful  creature  lick 
my  shoe  ?     It  was  incredible. 

"Then,  somehow,  everything  changed.  Fear  and  distrust 
left  me,  and  a  feeling  of  comradeship  and  understanding 
took  their  place.  We  two  had  been  through  so  much  together. 
A  dog  was  no  longer  a  frightful  beast  to  me ;  he  was  a  dog ! 
I  cannot  think  of  a  nobler  word.  And  Gulliver  had  licked 
my  shoe !  Doubtless  it  was  only  the  fineness  of  his  perception 
that  had  prevented  him  from  licking  my  hand.  I  might  have 
resented  that.  I  put  my  arms  suddenly  around  Gulliver's 
neck  and  hugged  him.     I  loved  that  dog! 

"Slowly,  slowly,  the  steamer  crawled  along,  but  still  she 
kept  to  her  course.  When  she  was  about  a  mile  away,  how- 
ever, I  saw  that  she  would  not  pass  as  near  to  us  as  I  had 
hoped ;  so  I  began  once  more  my  waving  and  yelling.  She 
came  nearer,  nearer,  but  still  showed  no  sign  of  observing  us. 
She  was  abreast  of  us^  and  passing.     I  was  in  a  frenzy! 


<  ( I 


104  GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

*'She  was  so  near  that  I  could  make  out  the  figure  of  the 
captain  on  the  bridge,  and  other  figures  on  the  deck  below.  It 
seemed  as  though  they  must  see  us,  though  I  realized  how  low 
in  the  water  we  stood,  and  how  pitifully  weak  and  hoarse  my 
voice  was.  I  had  been  a  fool  to  waste  it.  Then  an  idea  struck 
me. 

''  'Speak!'  I  cried  to  Gulliver,  who  stood  watching  beside 
me.     'Speak,  old  man!" 

''Gulliver  needed  no  second  bidding.  A  roar  like  that  of 
all  the  bulls  of  Bashan  rolled  out  over  the  blue  Pacific.  Again 
and  again  Gulliver  gave  voice,  deep,  full,  powerful.  His 
great  sides  heaved  with  the  mighty  effort,  his  red,  cavernous 
mouth  open,  and  his  head  raised  high. 

"  'Good,  old  man!'  I  cried.  *Good!'  And  again  that 
magnificent  voice  boomed  forth. 

"Then  something  happened  on  board  the  steamer.  The 
figures  came  to  the  side.  I  waved  my  coat  and  danced.  Then 
they  saw  us. 

' '  I  was  pretty  well  done  up  when  they  took  us  aboard,  and 
I  slept  for  twenty-four  hours  straight.  When  I  awoke  there 
sat  Gulliver  by  my  bunk,  and  when  I  turned  to  look  at  him 
he  lifted  a  great  paw  and  put  it  on  my  arm. ' ' 

Enderby  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  in  the  room  save  for 
the  light  snoring  of  Nubbins. 

"You  took  him  home  with  you,  I  suppose?"  I  asked. 

Enderby  nodded. 

"And  you  have  him  still?"  I  certainly  wanted  to  have  a 
look  at  that  dog. 

But  he  did  not  answer.  I  saw  an  expression  of  great  sad- 
ness come  into  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  out  of  the  window,  and  I 
knew  that  Jacob  Enderby  had  finished  his  story. 


SONNY'S  SCHOOLING 

By  RUTH  McENERY  STUART 
A   MONOLOGUE 

Well,  sir,  we  're  try  in'  to  edj  create  him — good  ez  we  can. 
Th'  ain't  never  been  a  edjercational  advantage  come  in  reach 
of  us  but  we  've  give  it  to  him.  Of  co'se  he  's  all  we  've  got, 
that  one  boy  is,  an'  wife  an'  me,  why,  we  feel  the  same  way 
about  it. 

They  's  three  schools  in  the  county,  an'  we  send  him  to  all 

three. 

Sir?  Oh,  yas,  sir;  he  b 'longs  to  all  three  schools — to  fo\ 
for  that  matter,  countin'  the  home  school. 

You  see,  Sonny  he  's  purty  ticklish  to  handle,  an'  a  person 
has  to  know  thess  how  to  tackle  him.  Even  wife  an'  me, 
thet  's  been  knowin'  him  f 'om  the  beginnin',  not  only  knowin' 
his  traits,  but  how  he  come  by  'em, — though  some  is  hard 
to  trace  to  their  so  'ces, — why,  sir,  even  we  have  to  study  some- 
times to  keep  in  with  him,  an'  of  co'se  a  teacher — why,  it  's 
thess  hit  an'  miss  whether  he  '11  take  the  right  tack  with  him 
or  not;  an'  sometimes  one  teacher  '11  strike  it  one  day,  an'  an- 
other nex'  day;  so  by  payin'  schoolin'  for  him  right  along  in 
all  three,  why,  of  co'se,  ef  he  don't  feel  like  goin'  to  one, 
why,  he  '11  go  to  another. 

Once-t  in  a  while  he  '11  git  out  with  the  whole  of  'em,  an' 
that  was  how  wife  come  to  open  the  home  school  for  him. 
She  was  determined  his  edj creation  shouldn't  be  interrupted 
ef  she  could  help  it.  She  don't  encour'ge  him  much  to  go  to 
her  school,  though,  'cause  it  interrupts  her  in  her  house- 
keepin'  consider 'ble,  an'  she  's  had  extry  quilt-patchin'  on 
hand  ever  since  he  come.  She  's  patchin'  him  a  set  'ginst  the 
time  he  '11  marry. 

An'  then  I  reckon  he  frets  her  a  good  deal  in  school.     Some- 

105 


lOG  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

how,  seems  like  he  thess  picks  up  enough  in  the  other  schools 
to  be  able  to  conterdic'  her  ways  o'  teachin'. 

F'  instance,  in  addin'  up  a  colume  o'  figgers,  ef  she  comes 
to  a  aught — which  some  calls  'em  naughts — she  11  say, 
*' Aught  's  a  aught,"  an'  Sonny  ain't  been  learned  to  say  it 
that  a-way ;  an '  so  maybe  when  she  says,  ' '  Aught  's  a  aught, ' ' 
he  '11  say,  "Who  said  it  wasn't?"  an'  that  puts  her  out  in 
countin '. 

He  's  been  learned  to  thess  pass  over  aughts  an'  not  call 
their  names ;  and  once-t  or  twice-t,  when  wife  called  'em  out 
that  a-way,  why,  he  got  so  fretted  he  thess  gethered  up  his 
things  an'  went  to  another  school.  But  seem  like  she  's  added 
aughts  that  a-way  so  long  she  can't  think  to  add  'em  no  other 
way. 

I  notice  nights  after  she  's  kept  school  for  Sonny  all  day 
she  talks  consider 'ble  in  her  sleep,  an'  she  says,  ''Aught  's 
a  aught ' '  about  ez  often  ez  she  says  anything  else. 

Oh,  yas,  sir;  he  's  had  consider 'ble  fusses  with  his  teachers, 
one  way  an'  another,  but  they  ever'  one  declare  they  think  a 
heap  of  'im. 

Sir?  Oh,  yas,  sir;  of  co'se  they  all  draw  their  reg'lar 
pay  whether  he  's  a  day  in  school  du'in'  the  month  or  not. 
That  's  right  enough,  'cause  you  see  they  don't  know  what 
day  he  's  li'ble  to  drop  in  on  'em,  an'  it  's  worth  the  money 
thess  a-keepin'  their  nerves  strung  for  'im. 

Well,  yas,  sir;  't  is  toler'ble  expensive,  lookin'  at  it  one 
way,  but  lookin'  at  it  another,  it  don't  cost  no  mo'  'n  what 
it  would  to  edjercate  three  child 'en,  which  many  poor  families 
have  to  do — an'  more — ^which  in  our  united  mind  Sonny's 
worth  'em  all. 

Yas,  sir;  't  is  confusin'  to  him  in  some  ways,  goin'  to  all 
three  schools  at  once-t. 

F'  instance,  Miss  Alviry  Sawyer,  which  she  's  a  single- 
handed  maiden  lady  'bout  wife's  age,  why,  of  co'se,  she 
teaches  accordin'  to  the  old  rules;  an'  in  learnin'  the  child 'en 
subtraction,  f '  instance,  she  '11  tell  'em,  ef  they  run  short  to 
borry  one  f 'om  the  nex'  lef '  han'  top  figur',  an'  pay  it  back 
to  the  feller  underneath  him. 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART  107 

Well,  this  didn't  suit  Sonny's  sense  o'  jestice  no  way, 
borryin'  from  one  an'  payin'  back  to  somebody  else;  so  he 
thess  up  an'  argued  about  it — told  her  thet  fellers  thet  bor- 
ried  nickels  f'om  one  another  couldn't  pay  back  that  a-way; 
an'  of  co'se  she  told  him  they  was  heap  o'  difference  'twix* 
money  and  'rithmetic — which  I  wish't  they  was  more  in  my 
experience;  an'  so  they  had  it  hot  and  heavy  for  a  while,  till 
at  last  she  explained  to  him  thet  that  way  of  doin'  subtraction 
fetched  the  ansiver,  which,  of  co'se,  ought  to  satisfy  any 
school-boy;  an'  I  reckon  Sonny  would  soon  'a'  settled  into 
that  way  'ceptin'  thet  he  got  out  o'  patience  with  that  school 
in  sev'al  ways,  an'  he  left  an'  went  out  to  Sandy  Crik  school, 
and  it  thess  happened  that  he  struck  a  subtraction  class  there 
the  day  he  got  in,  an'  they  was  workin'  it  the  other  way — 
borry  one  from  the  top  iigur'  an'  never  pay  it  back  at  all, 
thess  count  it  off  (that  's  the  way  I  've  worked  my  lifelong 
subtraction,  though  wife  does  hers  payin'  back),  an'  of  co'se 
Sonny  was  ready  to  dispute  this  way,  an'  he  didn't  have 
no  mo'  tac'  than  to  th'ow  up  Miss  Alviry's  way  to  the  teacher, 
which  of  co'se  he  would  n't  stand,  particular  ez  Miss  Alviry  's 
got  the  biggest  school.  So  they  broke  up  in  a  row,  immejate, 
and  Sonny  went  right  along  to  Miss  Kellog's  school  down 
here  at  the  cross-roads. 

She  's  a  sort  o '  reformed  teacher,  I  take  it ;  an '  she  gets  at 
her  subtraction  by  a  new  route  altogether — like  ez  ef  the 
first  feller  thet  had  any  surplus  went  sort  o '  security  for  them 
thet  was  short,  an'  passed  the  loan  down  the  line.  But  I  no- 
ticed he  never  got  his  money  back,  for  when  they  come  to  him, 
why,  they  docked  him.  I  reckon  goin '  security  is  purty  much 
the  same  in  an  out  o'  books.  She  passes  the  borryin'  along 
some  way  till  it  gits  to  headquarters,  an'  writes  a  new  row  o' 
figur's  over  the  heads  o'  the  others.  Well,  my  old  brain  got 
so  addled  watchin '  Sonny  work  it  thet  I  did  n  't  seem  to  know 
one  figur'  f'om  another  'fo'  he  got  thoo;  but  when  I  see  the 
answer  come,  why,  I  was  satisfied.  Ef  a  man  can  thess  git  his 
answers  right  •all  his  life,  why  nobody  ain't  a-goin'  to  pester 
him  about  how  he  worked  his  figur's. 

I  did  try  to  get  Sonny  to  stick  to  one  school  for  each  rule 


108  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

in  'rithmetic,  an'  havin'  thess  fo'  schools,  why  he  could  learn 
each  o'  the  fo'  rules  by  one  settled  plan.  But  he  won't 
promise  nothin'.  He  '11  quit  for  lessons  one  week,  and  maybe 
next  week  somethin'  else  11  decide  him.  (He  's  quit  ever' 
one  of  'em  in  turn  when  they  come  to  long  division.)  He 
went  thoo  a  whole  week  o'  disagreeable  lessons  once-t  at  one 
school  'cause  he  was  watchin'  a  bird-nest  on  the  way  to  that 
school.  He  was  determined  them  young  birds  was  to  be  al- 
lowed to  leave  that  nest  without  bein'  pestered,  an'  they  stayed 
so  long  they  purty  nigh  run  him  into  long  division  'fo'  they 
did  fly.  Ef  he  'd  'a'  missed  school  one  day  he  knowed  two 
sneaky  chaps  thet  would  'a'  robbed  that  nest,  either  goin'  or 
comin'. 

Of  co'se  Sonny  goes  to  the  exhibitions  an'  picnics  of  all  the 
schools.  Last  summer  we  had  a  time  of  it  when  it  come  pic- 
nic season.  Two  schools  set  the  same  day  for  theirs,  which  of 
co'se  wasn't  no  ways  fair  to  Sonny.  He  payin'  right  along 
in  all  the  schools,  of  co'se  he  was  entitled  to  all  the  picnics; 
so  I  put  on  my  Sunday  clo'es,  an'  I  went  down  an'  had  it 
fixed  right.  They  all  wanted  Sonny,  too,  come  down  to  the 
truth,  'cause  besides  bein'  fond  of  him,  they  knowed  thet 
Sonny  always  fetched  a  big  basket. 

Trouble  with  Sonny  is  thet  he  don't  take  nothin'  on  no- 
body's say-so,  don't  keer  who  it  is.  He  even  commenced  to 
dispute  Moses  one  Sunday  when  wife  was  readin'  the  Holy 
Scriptures  to  him,  tell  of  co'se  she  made  him  understand  thet 
that  wouldn't  do.     Moses  didn't  intend  to  he  conterdieted. 

An'  ez  to  secular  lessons,  he  ain't  got  no  respec'  for  'em 
whatsoever.  F'  instance,  when  the  teacher  learned  him  thet 
the  world  was  round,  why  he  up  an'  told  him  '#  ivar  n't  so, 
less'n  we  was  on  the  inside  an'  it  was  blue-lined,  which  of 
co'se  teacher  he  insisted  thet  we  was  on  the  outside,  walkin' 
over  it,  all  feet  todes  the  center — a  thing  I  've  always  thought 
myself  was  mo'  easy  said  than  proved. 

Well,  sir.  Sonny  didn't  hesitate  to  deny  it,  an'  of  co'se 
teacher  he  commenced  by  givin'  him  a  check — which  is  a  bad 
mark — for  conterdictin'^  An'  then  Sonny  he  'lowed  thet  he 
didn't   conterdic'  to   he  a-conterdictin ',   but  he   knowed    't 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART  109 

war  n't  so.  He  had  walked  the  whole  len'th  o'  the  road 
'twix'  the  farm  an'  the  school-house,  an'  they  war  n't  no 
bulge  in  it;  an'  besides,  he  hadn't  never  saw  over  the  edges 
of  it. 

An'  with  that  teacher  he  give  him  another  check  for  speakin' 
out  o'  turn.  An'  then  Sonny,  says  he,  ''Ef  a  man  was  tall 
enough  he  could  see  around  the  edges,  could  n't  he?"  "No," 
says  the  teacher;  ''a  man  couldn't  grow  that  tall,"  says  he; 
"he  'd  be  deformed." 

An'  Sonny,  why,  he  spoke  up  again,  an'  says  he,  "But  I  'm 
thess  a-sayin'  ef/'  says  he.  "An'  teacher,"  says  he,  "we 
ain't  a-studyin'  efs;  we  're  studyin'  geoger'phy."  And  then 
Sonny  they  say  he  kep'  still  a  minute,  an'  then  he  says,  says 
he,  "Oh,  maybe  he  couldn't  see  over  the  edges,  teacher, 
'cause  ef  he  was  tall  enough  his  head  might  reach  up  into 
the  flo'  o'  heaven."  And  with  that  teacher  he  give  him  an- 
other check,  an'  told  him  not  to  dare  to  mix  up  geoger'phy 
an'  religion,  which  was  a  sackerlege  to  both  studies;  an'  with 
that  Sonny  gethered  up  his  books  an'  set  out  to  another  school. 

I  think  myself  it  'u'd  be  thess  ez  well  ef  Sonny  wasn't 
quite  so  quick  to  conterdic';  but  it  's  thess  his  way  of  holdin' 
his  p  'int. 

Why,  one  day  he  faced  one  o'  the  teachers  down  thet  two 
an'  two  did  n't  haf  to  make  fo\  wh'er  or  no. 

This  seemed  to  tickle  the  teacher  mightily,  an'  so  he  laughed 
an'  told  him  he  was  goin'  to  give  him  rope  enough  to  hang 
hisself  now,  an'  then  he  dared  him  to  show  him  any  two  an' 
two  thet  didn't  make  fo',  and  Sonny  says,  says  he,  "Heap  o' 
two  an'  twos  don't  make  four,  'cause  they  're  kep'  sep'rate," 
says  he. 

"An'  then,"  says  he,  "I  don't  want  my  two  billy-goats 
harnessed  up  with  nobody  else 's  two  billys  to  make  f o '  billys. ' ' 

"But,"  says  the  teacher,  "suppose  I  was  to  harness  up  yo' 
two  goats  with  Tom  Deems 's  two,  there  'd  be  fo'  goats,  I 
reckon,  whether  you  wanted  'em  there  or  not." 

"No  they  wouldn't,"  says  Sonny.  "They  wouldn't  be 
but  two.  'T  would  n  't  take  my  team  more  'n  half  a  minute 
to  butt  the  life  out  o'  Tom's  team." 


110  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

An'  with  that  little  Tommy  Deems,  why,  he  commenced 
to  cry,  an'  'stid  o'  punishin'  him  for  bein'  sech  a  cry-baby, 
what  did  the  teacher  do  but  give  Sonny  another  check,  for 
castin'  slurs  on  Tommy's  animals,  an'  gettin'  Tommy's  feelin's 
hurted!  Which  I  ain't  a-sayin'  it  on  account  o'  Sonny  bein' 
my  boy,  but  it  seems  to  me  was  a  mighty  unfair  advantage. 

No  boy's  feelin's  ain't  got  no  right  to  be  that  tender — 
an'  a  goat  is  the  last  thing  on  earth  thet  could  be  injured  by 
a  word  of  mouth. 

Sonny's  pets  an'  beasts  has  made  a  heap  o'  commotion  in 
school  one  way  an'  another,  somehow.  Ef  't  ain't  his  goats 
it  's  somethin'  else. 

Sir?  Sonny's  pets?  Oh,  they  're  all  sorts.  He  ain't  no 
ways  partic'lar  thess  so  a  thing  is  po'  an'  miser 'ble  enough. 
That  's  about  all  he  seems  to  require  of  anything. 

He  don't  never  go  to  school  hardly  'thout  a  garter-snake  or 
two  or  a  lizard  or  a  toad-frog  somewheres  about  him.  He  's 
got  some  o'  the  little  girls  at  school  that  nervous  thet  if  he 
thess  shakes  his  little  sleeve  at  'em  they  '11  squeal,  not  knowin ' 
what  sort  o '  live  critter  '11  jump  out  of  it. 

Most  of  his  pets  is  things  he  's  got  by  their  bein'  hurted 
some  way. 

One  of  his  toad-frogs  is  blind  of  a  eye.  Sonny  rescued  him 
from  the  old  red  rooster  one  day  after  he  had  nearly  pecked 
him  to  death,  an'  he  had  him  hoppin'  round  the  kitchen  for 
about  a  week  with  one  eye  bandaged  up. 

When  a  hurted  critter  gits  good  an '  strong  he  gen  'ally  turns 
it  loose  ag'in;  but  ef  it  stays  puny,  why  he  reg'lar  'dopts 
it  an'  names  it  Jones.  That  's  thess  a  little  notion  o'  his, 
namin'  his  pets  the  family  name. 

The  most  outlandish  thing  he  ever  'dopted,  to  my  mind,  is 
that  old  yaller  cat.  That  was  a  miser 'ble  low-do vm  stray  cat 
thet  hung  round  the  place  a  whole  season,  an'  Sonny  used  to 
vow  he  was  goin'  to  kill  it,  'cause  it  kep'  a-ketchin'  the  birds. 

Well,  one  day  he  happened  to  see  him  thess  runnin'  off  with 
a  young  mockin'-bird  in  his  mouth,  an'  he  took  a  brickbat 
an'  he  let  him  have  it,  an'  of  co'se  he  dropped  the  bird  an' 
tumbled  over — stunted.     The  bird  it  got  well,   and   Sonny 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART  111 

turned  him  loose  after  a  few  days;  but  that  cat  was  hurted 
fatal.  He  could  n  't  never  no  mo '  'n  drag  hisself  around  from 
that  day  to  this ;  an '  I  reckon  ef  Sonny  was  called  on  to  give 
up  every  pet  he  's  got,  that  cat  would  be  'bout  the  last  thing 
he  'd  surrender.  He  named  him  Tommy  Jones,  an'  he  never 
goes  to  school  of  a  mornin',  rain  or  shine,  till  Tommy  Jones  is 
fed  f 'om  his  own  plate  with  somethin'  he  's  left  for  him 
special. 

Of  co'se  Sonny  he  's  got  his  faults,  which  anybody  '11  tell 
you ;  but  th '  ain  't  a  dumb  brute  on  the  farm  but  '11  f oiler  him 
around — an'  Dice}^,  wh}^  she  thinks  they  never  was  such  an- 
other boy  born  into  the  world — that  is,  not  no  human  child. 

An'  wife  an'  me — 

But  of  co'se  he  's  ours. 

I  don't  doubt  thet  he  ain't  constructed  thess  exac'ly  ez  the 
school-teachers  would  have  him,  ef  they  had  their  way.  Some- 
times I  have  thought  I  'd  like  his  disposition  eased  up  a  little, 
myself,  when  he  taken  a  stand  ag'in  my  jedgment  or  v/ife's. 

Takin'  'em  all  round,  though,  the  teachers  has  been  mighty 
patient  with  him. 

At  one  school  the  teacher  did  take  him  out  behind  the  school- 
house  one  day  to  whup  him;  an'  although  teacher  is  a  big 
strong  man.  Sonny's  mighty  wiry  an'  quick,  an'  some  way  he 
slipped  his  holt,  an'  'fo'  teacher  could  ketch  him  ag'in  he 
had  dumb  up  the  lightnin  '-rod  on  to  the  roof  thess  like  a  cat. 
An'  teacher  he  felt  purty  shore  of  him  then,  'cause  he  'lowed 
they  wasn't  no  other  way  to  git  down  (which  they  wasn't, 
the  school  bein'  a  steep-sided  buildin'),  an'  he  'd  wait  for 
him. 

So  teacher  he  set  down  close-t  to  the  lightnin '-rod  to  wait. 
He  wouldn't  go  back  in  school  without  him,  cause  he  didn't 
want  the  child 'en  to  know  he  'd  got  away.  So  down  he  set; 
but  he  had  n't  no  mo'  'n  took  his  seat  sca'cely  when  he  heerd 
the  child 'en  in  school  roa'in'  out  loud,  laughin'  fit  to  kill 
theirselves. 

He  'lowed  at  first  thet  like  ez  not  the  monitor  was  cuttin' 
up  some  sort  o'  didoes,  the  way  monitors  does  gen 'ally,  so  he 
waited  a-while;  but  it  kep'  a-gittin'  worse,  so  d'rectly  he  got 


112  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

up,  an'  he  went  in  to  see  what  the  excitement  was  about;  an' 
lo  and  beholt!  Sonny  had  slipped  down  the  open  chimbly 
right  in  amongst  'em — come  out  a-grinnin',  with  his  face  all 
sooted  over,  an',  says  he,  "Say,  fellers,"  says  he,  "I  run  up 
the  lightnin'-rod,  an'  he  's  a-waitin'  for  me  to  come  down." 
An'  with  that  he  went  an'  gethered  up  his  books,  deliberate, 
an'  fetched  his  hat,  an'  picked  up  a  nest  o'  little  chimbly- 
swallows  he  had  dislodged  in  comin'  down  (all  this  here  it  hap- 
pened thess  las'  June),  an'  he  went  out  an'  harnessed  up  his 
goat-wagon,  an'  got  in.  An'  thess  ez  he  driv'  out  the  school- 
yard into  the  road  the  teacher  come  in,  an '  he  see  how  things 
was. 

Of  co'se  sech  conduct  ez  that  is  worrisome,  but  I  don't  see 
no,  to  say,  bad  principle  in  it.  Sonny  ain't  got  a  bad  habit  on 
earth,  not  a-one.  They  '11  ever'  one  o'  the  teachers  tell  you 
that.  He  ain't  never  been  knowed  to  lie,  an'  ez  for  improper 
language,  why  he  wouldn't  know  how  to  select  it.  An'  ez 
to  tattlin'  at  home  about  what  goes  on  in  school,  why,  he 
never  has  did  it.  The  only  way  we  knowed  about  him  comin' 
down  the  school-house  chimbly  was  wife  went  to  fetch  his 
dinner  to  him,  an'  she  found  it  out. 

She  knowed  he  had  went  to  that  school  in  the  mornin',  an' 
when  she  got  there  at  twelve  o  'clock,  why  he  was  n  't  there,  an ' 
of  co'se  she  questioned  the  teacher,  an'  he  thess  told  her 
thet  Sonny  had  been  present  at  the  mornin'  session,  but  thet 
he  was  now  absent.  An'  the  rest  of  it  she  picked  out  o'  the 
child 'en. 

Oh,  no,  sir;  she  don't  take  his  dinner  to  him  reg'lar — only 
some  days  when  she  happens  to  have  somethin'  extry  good,  or 
maybe  when  she  'magines  he  didn't  eat  hearty  at  breakfast. 
The  school-child 'en  they  always  likes  to  see  her  come,  because 
she  gen 'ally  takes  a  extry  lot  o'  fried  chicken  thess  for  him 
to  give  away.  PTe  don't  keer  much  for  nothin'  but  livers  an' 
gizzards,  so  we  have  to  kill  a  good  many  to  get  enough  for  him ; 
an'  of  co'se  the  fryin'  o'  the  rest  of  it  is  mighty  little  trouble. 

Sonny  is  a  bothersome  child  one  way:  he  don't  never  want 
to  take  his  dinner  to  school  with  him.     Of  co'se  thess  after 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART  113 

eatin'  breakfas'  he  don't  feel  hungry,  an'  when  wife  does 
coax  him  to  take  it,  he  '11  seem  to  git  up  a  appetite  vvalkin'  to 
school,  an'  he  '11  eat  it  up  'fo'  he  gits  there. 

Sonny  's  got  a  mighty  noble  disposition,  though,  take  him 
all  round. 

Now,  the  day  he  slipped  down  that  chimbly  an'  run  away 
he  wasn't  a  bit  flustered,  an'  he  didn't  play  hookey  the 
balance  of  the  day  neither.  He  thess  went  down  to  the  crik, 
an'  washed  the  soot  off  his  face,  though  they  say  he  didn't 
no  more  'n  smear  it  round,  an'  then  he  went  down  to  Miss 
Phoebe's  school,  an'  stayed  there  till  it  was  out.  An'  she  took 
him  out  to  the  well,  an'  washed  his  face  good  for  him.  But 
nex'  day  he  up  an'  went  back  to  Mr.  Clark's  school — walked  in 
thess  ez  pleasant  an'  kind,  an'  taken  his  seat  an'  said  his 
lessons — never  th'owed  it  up  to  teacher  at  all.  Now,  some 
child 'en,  after  playin'  off  on  a  teacher  that  a-way  would  a' 
took  advantage,  but  he  never  It  was  a  fair  fight,  an'  Sonny 
whupped,  an'  that  's  all  there  was  to  it;  an'  he  never  put  on 
no  air  about  it. 

Wife  did  threaten  to  go  herself  an'  make  the  teacher  apolo- 
gize for  gittin'  the  little  feller  all  sooted  up  an'  sp'ilin'  his 
clo'es;  but  she  thought  it  over,  an'  she  decided  thet  she 
wouldn't  disturb  things  ez  long  ez  they  was  peaceful.  An', 
after  all,  he  did  n  't  exac  'ly  send  him  down  the  chimbly  nohow, 
though  he  provoked  him  to  it. 

Ef  Sonny  had  'a'  fell  an'  hurted  hisself,  though,  in  that 
chimbly,  I  'd  'a'  belt  that  teacher  responsible,  shore. 

Sonny  says  hisself  thet  the  only  thing  he  feels  bad  about 
in  that  chimbly  business  is  thet  one  o'  the  little  swallers'  wings 
was  broke  by  the  fall.  Sonny  's  got  him  yet,  an'  he  's  li'ble 
to  keep  him,  cause  he  '11  never  fly.  Named  him  Swally  Jones, 
an'  reg'lar  'dopted  him  soon  ez  he  see  how  his  wing  was. 

Sonny  's  the  only  child  I  ever  see  in  my  life  thet  could  take 
young  chimbly-swallers  after  their  fall  an'  make  'em  live. 
But  he  does  it  reg'lar.  They  ain't  a  week  passes  sca'cely 
but  he  fetches  in  some  hurted  critter  an'  works  with  it.  Dicey 
says  thet  half  the  time  she  's  af eered  to  step  around  her  cook- 


114  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

stove  less'n  she  '11  step  on  some  critter  thet  's  crawled  back 
to  life  where  he  's  put  it  under  the  stove  to  hatch  or  thaw  out, 
which  she  bein'  bare-feeted,  I  don't  wonder  at. 

An'  he  has  did  the  same  way  at  school  purty  much.  It 
got  so  for  a-while  at  one  school  thet  not  a  child  in  school  could 
be  hired  to  put  his  hand  in  the  wood-box,  not  knowin'  ef  any 
piece  o'  bark  or  old  wood  in  it  would  turn  out  to  be  a  young 
alligator  or  toad-frog  thawin'  out.  Teacher  hisself  picked  up 
a  chip,  reckless,  one  day,  an '  it  hopped  up,  and  knocked  off  his 
spectacles.  Of  co'se  it  wasn't  no  chip.  Hopper-toad  frog 
an'  wood-bark  chips,  why,  they  favors  consider 'ble — lay  'em 
same  side  up. 

It  was  on  account  o'  her  takin'  a  interest  in  all  his  little 
beasts  an'  varmints  thet  he  first  took  sech  a  notion  to  Miss 
Phoebe  Kellog's  school.  Where  any  other  teacher  would  scold 
about  sech  things  ez  he  'd  fetch  in,  why,  she  'd  encourage  him 
to  bring  'em  to  her;  an'  she  'd  fix  a  place  for  'em,  an'  maybe 
git  out  some  book  tellin'  all  about  'em,  an'  showin'  pictures 
of  'em. 

She  's  had  squir'l-books,  an'  bird-books,  an'  books  on  nearly 
every  sort  o'  wild  critter  you  'd  think  too  mean  to  put  into  a 
book,  at  that  school,  an'  give  the  child 'en  readin '-lessons  on 
'em  an'  drawin '-lessons  an'  clay-moldin'  lessons. 

Why,  Sonny  has  did  his  alligator  so  nach'l  in  clay  thet 
you  'd  most  expec'  to  see  it  creep  away.  An'  you  'd  think 
mo'  of  alligators  forever  afterward,  too.  An'  ez  to  readin',  he 
never  did  take  no  interest  in  learnin'  how  to  read  out  'n  them 
school-readers,  which  he  declares  don 't  no  more  'n  git  a  person 
interested  in  one  thing  befo'  they  start  on  another,  an'  maybe 
start  that  in  the  middle. 

The  other  teachers,  they  makes  a  heap  o'  fun  o'  Miss 
Phoebe's  way  o'  school-teaehin',  'cause  she  lets  the  child 'en 
ask  all  sorts  of  outlandish  questions,  an'  make  pictures  in 
school  hours,  an'  she  don't  requi'  'em  to  fold  their  arms  in 
school,  neither. 

Maybe  she  is  foolin'  their  time  away.  I  can't  say  ez  I 
exac'ly  see  how  she  's  a  workin'  it  to  edjercate  'em  that  a-way. 
I  had  to  set  with  my  arms  folded  eight  hours  a  day  in  school 
when  I  was  a  boy,  to  learn  the  little  I  know,  an'  wife  she  got 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART  115 

her  edjercation  the  same  way.  An'  we  went  clean  thoo  f  om 
the  a-b  abs  an'  e-b  ebs  clair  to  the  end  o'  the  blue-back  speller. 

An'  we  learned  to  purnounce  a  heap  mo'  words  than  either 
one  of  us  has  ever  needed  to  know,  though  there  has  been 
times,  sech  ez  when  my  wife's  mother  took  the  phthisic  an'  I 
had  the  asthma,  thet  I  was  obligated  to  write  to  the  doctor 
about  it,  thet  I  was  thankful  for  my  experience  in  the  blue- 
back  speller.  Them  was  our  brag-words,  phthisic  and  asthma 
was.  They  's  a  few  other  words  I  've  always  hoped  to  have  a 
chance  to  spell  in  the  reg'lar  co'se  of  life,  sech  ez  y-a-c-h-t, 
yacht,  but  I  suppose,  livin'  in  a  little  inland  town,  which  a 
yacht  is  a  boat,  a  person  couldn't  be  expected  to  need  sech  a 
word — less'n  he  went  travelin'. 

I  've  often  thought  thet  ef  at  the  Jedgment  the  good  Lord 
would  only  examine  me  an'  all  them  thet  went  to  school  in  my 
day,  in  the  old  blue-back  speller  'stid  o'  tacklin'  us  on  the 
weak  p'ints  of  our  pore  mortal  lives,  why,  we  'd  stand  about 
ez  good  a  chance  o'  gettin'  to  heaven  ez  anybody  else.  An' 
maybe  He  will — who  knows? 

But  ez  for  book-readin',  wife  an'  me  ain't  never  felt  called 
on  to  read  no  book  save  an'  exceptin'  the  Holy  Scriptures — 
an',  of  co'se,  the  seed  catalogues. 

An'  here  Sonny,  not  quite  twelve  year  old,  has  read  five 
books  thoo,  an'  some  of  'em  twice-t  an'  three  times  over.  His 
Robinson  Crusoe  shows  mo'  wear  'n  tear  'n  what  my  Testa- 
ment does,  I  'm  ashamed  to  say.  I  've  done  give  Miss  Phoebe 
free  license  to  buy  him  any  book  she  wants  him  to  have,  an' 
he  's  got  'em  all  'ranged  in  a  row  on  the  end  o'  the  mantel- 
shelf. 

Quick  ez  he  'd  git  thoo  readin'  a  book,  of  co'se  wife  she  'd 
be  for  dustin'  it  off  and  puttin'  up  on  the  top  closet  shelf 
where  a  book  nach'ally  belongs;  but  seem  like  Sonny  he  wants 
to  keep  'em  in  sight.  So  wife  she  's  worked  a  little  lace  shelf- 
cover  to  lay  under  'em,  an'  we  've  hung  our  framed  marriage- 
c'tificate  above  'em,  an'  the  comer  looks  right  purty,  come 
to  see  it  fixed  up. 

Sir?  Oh,  no;  we  ain't  took  him  from  none  o'  the  other 
schools  yet.     He  's  been  goin'  to  Miss  Phoebe's  reg'lar  now — - 


116  SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

all  but  the  exhibition  an'  picnic  days  in  the  other  schools — for 
nearly  five  months,  not  countin '  off -an  '-on  days  he  went  to  her 
bef  0 '  he  settled  down  to  it  stiddy . 

He  says  he  's  a-goin'  there  reg'lar  from  this  time  on,  an'  I 
b'lieve  he  will;  but  wife  an'  me  we  talked  it  over,  an'  we  de- 
cided we  'd  let  things  stand,  an '  keep  his  name  down  on  all  the 
books  till  sech  a  time  ez  he  come  to  long  division  with  Miss 
Kellog. 

An '  ef  he  stays  thoo  that,  we  '11  feel  free  to  notify  the  other 
schools  thet  he  's  quit. 


.i 


HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

By  DAVID  GRAY 

She  folded  the  program  carefully  for  preservation  in  her 
memory-book,  and  devoured  the  scene  with  her  eyes.  It  was 
hard  to  believe,  but  unquestionably  Angelica  Stanton,  in  the 
flesh,  was  in  Madison  Square  Garden  at  the  horse  show.  The 
great  arena  was  crowded ;  the  band  was  playing,  and  a  four-in- 
hand  was  swinging  around  the  tan-bark  ring. 

What  had  been  her  dream  since  she  put  away  her  dolls  and 
the  flea-bitten  pony  was  realized.  The  pony  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  Lady  Washington,  and  with  Lady  Washington 
opened  the  epoch  when  she  began  to  hunt  with  the  grown-up 
people  and  to  reflect  upon  the  outside  world.  From  what  she 
had  gathered  from  the  men  in  the  hunting-field,  the  outside 
world  seemed  to  center  in  the  great  horse  show,  and  most  of 
what  was  interesting  and  delightful  in  life  took  place  there. 

Besides  the  obvious  profit  of  witnessing  this  institution, 
there  had  arisen,  later  on,  more  serious  considerations  which 
led  Angelica  to  take  an  interest  in  it.  Since  the  disappear- 
ance of  Lady  Washington  and  the  failure  to  trace  her,  Angel- 
ica's hope  was  in  the  show. 

One  of  the  judges  who  had  visited  Jim  had  unwittingly  laid 
the  bases  of  this  hope.  "All  the  best  performers  in  America 
are  exhibited  there,"  he  had  said  in  the  course  of  an  intermin- 
able discussion  upon  the  great  subject.  And  was  not  Lady 
Washington  probably  the  best?  Clearly,  therefore,  soon  or 
late  Lady  Washington  would  be  found  winning  blue  ribbons 
at  Madison  Square  Garden. 

To  this  cheering  conclusion  the  doubting  Thomas  within  her 
replied  that  so  desirable  a  miracle  could  never  be;  and  she 
cherished  the  doubt,  though  rather  to  provoke  contrary  fate 
into  refuting  it  than  because  it  embodied  her  convictions.  She 
knew  that  some  day  Lady  Washington  must  come  back. 

117 


118  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

After  Jim  had  sold  Lady  Washington,  he  had  been  informed 
by  Chloe,  the  parlor-maid,  how  Angelica  felt,  and  he  repented 
his  act.  He  had  tried  to  buy  the  mare  back,  but  the  man  to 
whom  he  had  sold  her  had  sold  her  to  a  dealer,  and  he  had  sold 
her  to  somebody  who  had  gone  abroad,  and  no  one  knew  what 
this  person  had  done  with  her.  So  Lady  Washington  had  dis- 
appeared, and  Angelica  mourned  for  her.  Two  years  passed, 
two  years  that  were  filled  with  doubt  and  disappointment. 
Each  autumn  Jim  went  North  with  his  horses,  but  never  sug- 
gested taking  Angelica.  As  for  Angelica,  the  subject  w^as  too 
near  her  heart  for  her  to  broach  it.  Thus  it  seemed  that  life 
was  slipping  away,  harshly  withholding  opportunity. 

That  November,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  Jim  decided  to  take 
Angelica  along  with  him.  When  he  told  her  of  his  intention, 
she  gasped,  but  made  no  demonstration.  On  the  threshold 
of  fulfilling  her  hope  she  was  afraid  to  exult:  she  knew  how 
things*  are  snatched  away  the  moment  one  begins  to  count 
upon  them ;  but  inwardly  she  was  happy  to  the  point  of  appre- 
hension. On  the  trip  North  she  "knocked  wood"  scrupu- 
lously every  time  she  was  lured  into  a  day-dream  which  pic- 
tured the  finding  of  Lady  Washington,  and  thus  she  gave  the 
evil  forces  of  destiny  no  opening. 

The  first  hour  of  the  show  overwhelmed  her.  It  was  too 
splendid  and  mystifying  to  be  comprehended  immediately,  or 
to  permit  a  divided  attention.  Even  Lady  Washington 
dropped  out  of  her  thoughts,  but  only  until  the  jumping 
classes  began.  The  first  hunter  that  trotted  across  the  tan- 
bark  brought  her  back  to  her  quest. 

But  after  two  days  the  mystery  was  no  more  a  mystery,  and 
the  splendor  had  faded  out.  The  joy  of  it  had  faded  out,  too. 
For  two  days  she  had  pored  over  the  entry-lists  and  had 
studied  every  horse  that  entered  the  ring;  but  the  search  for 
Lady  Washington  had  been  a  vain  one.  Furthermore,  all  the 
best  horses  by  this  time  had  appeared  in  some  class,  and  the 
chances  of  Lady  Washington's  turning  up  seemed  infinitesi- 
mal. Reluctantly  she  gave  up  hope.  She  explained  it  to  her- 
self that  probably  there  had  been  a  moment  of  vainglorious 
pride  when  she  had  neglected  to  "knock  wood."     She  would 


DAVID  GRAY  119 

have  liked  to  discuss  it  with  somebody;  but  Chloe  and  her 
colored  mammy,  who  understood  such  matters,  were  at  the 
"Pines"  in  Virginia,  and  Jim  would  probably  laugh  at 
her;  so  she  maintained  silence  and  kept  her  despair  to  her- 
self. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  and  she  was  at  the  show 
again,  dressed  in  her  habit,  because  she  was  going  to  ride. 
Her  brother  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  Garden,  hidden  by  a 
row  of  horses.  He  was  waiting  to  show  in  a  class  of  park 
hacks.  There  was  nothing  in  it  that  looked  like  Lady  Wash- 
ington, and  she  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  ring  with  a 
heavy  heart.  The  band  had  stopped  playing,  and  there  was  no 
one  to  talk  to  but  her  aunt's  maid,  and  this  maid  was  not  com- 
panionable. She  fell  to  watching  the  people  in  the  boxes ;  she 
wished  that  she  knew  some  of  them.  There  was  a  box  just 
below  her  which  looked  attractive.  There  were  two  pretty 
women  in  it,  and  some  men  who  looked  as  if  they  were  nice; 
they  were  laughing  and  seemed  to  be  having  a  good  time.  She 
wished  she  was  with  them,  or  home,  or  anywhere  else  than 
where  she  was. 

Presently  the  music  struck  up  again ;  the  hum  of  the  innu- 
merable voices  took  a  higher  pitch.  The  ceaseless  current  of 
promenaders  staring  and  bowing  at  the  boxes  went  slowly 
around  and  around.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  the  horses, 
but  all  jostled  and  chattered  and  craned  their  necks  to  see  the 
people.  When  her  brother's  Redgauntlet  took  the  blue  rib- 
bon in  the  heavy-weight  green-hunter  class,  not  a  person  in 
the  whole  Garden  applauded  except  herself.  She  heard  a  man 
ask,  "What  took  the  blue?"  And  she  heard  his  friend 
answer,  "Southern  horse,  I  believe;  don't  know  the  owner." 
They  didn't  even  know  Jim!  She  would  have  left  the  place 
and  gone  back  to  her  aunt's  for  a  comfortable  cry,  but  she  was 
going  to  ride  Hilda  in  the  ladies'  saddle  class,  which  came 
toward  the  end  of  the  evening. 

The  next  thing  on  the  program  were  some  qualified  hunters 
which  might  be  expected  to  show  some  good  jumping.  This 
was  something  to  be  thankful  for,  and  she  turned  her  atten- 
tion to  the  rinsr. 


120  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

''I  think  I  '11  go  down  on  the  floor,"  she  said  to  the  maid. 
*  *  I  'm  tired  of  sitting  still. ' ' 

In  theory  Miss  Angelica  Stanton  was  at  the  horse  show 
escorted  by  her  brother ;  but  in  fact  she  was  in  the  custody  of 
Caroline,  the  maid  of  her  aunt  Henrietta  Gushing,  who  lived 
in  Washington  Square.  Miss  Gushing  was  elderly,  and  she 
disapproved  of  the  horse  show  because  her  father  had  been  a 
charter  member  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Gruelty 
to  Animals,  and  because  to  go  to  it  in  the  afternoon  inter- 
fered with  her  drive  and  with  her  tea,  while  to  go  to  it  in 
the  evening  interfered  with  her  whist,  and  that  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  Gonsequently,  when  Angelica  arrived,  the 
horse  show  devolved  upon  Garoline,  who  accepted  the 
situation  not  altogether  with  resignation.  She  had  done 
Miss  Gushing 's  curls  for  twenty  years,  and  had  absorbed  her 
views. 

Angelica  would  have  preferred  stopping  at  the  hotel  with 
Jim ;  but  that,  he  said,  was  out  of  the  question.  Jim  admitted 
that  Aunt  Henrietta  was  never  intentionally  entertaining, 
but  he  said  that  Angelica  needed  her  womanly  influence.  Jim 
had  brought  up  Angelica,  and  the  problem  sometimes  seemed 
a  serious  one.  She  was  now  sixteen,  and  he  was  satisfied  that 
she  was  going  to  be  a  horsewoman,  but  at  times  he  doubted 
whether  his  training  was  adequate  in  other  respects,  and  that 
was  why  he  had  brought  her  to  the  horse  show  and  had 
incarcerated  her  at  Aunt  Henrietta's. 

The  girl  led  Caroline  through  the  crowd,  and  took  a  position 
at  the  end,  between  the  first  and  last  jumps.  As  the  horses 
were  shown,  they  went  round  the  ring,  came  back,  and  finished 
in  front  of  them.  It  was  the  best  place  from  which  to  watch, 
if  one  wished  to  see  the  jumping. 

Angelica  admitted  to  herself  that  some  of  the  men  rode 
pretty  well,  but  not  as  well  as  some  of  the  men  rode  at  their 
out-of-door  shows  at  home;  and  the  tan-bark  was  not  as  good 
as  turf.  It  was  a  large  class,  and  after  eight  or  ten  had  been 
shown,  a  striking-looking  black  mare  came  out  of  the  line  and 
started  plunging  and  rearing  toward  the  first  jump.  Her 
rider  faced  her  at  the  bars,  and  she  minced  reluctantly  for- 


DAVID  GRAY  121 

ward.  Just  before  they  reached  the  wings  the  man  struck  her. 
She  stopped  short  and  whirled  back  into  the  ring. 

From  the  time  the  black  mare  appeared  Angelica's  heart 
almost  stopped  beating.  "  I  'm  sure  of  it,  I  'm  sure  of  it ! " 
she  gasped.  ''Three  white  feet  and  the  star.  Caroline,"  she 
said,  "that  's  Lady  Washington.  He  oughtn't  to  strike  her. 
He  mustn't!" 

''Hush,  miss,"  said  Caroline.     ''We  '11  be  conspicuous." 

The  man  was  bringing  the  mare  back  toward  the  jump.  As 
before,  he  used  his  whip,  intending  to  drive  her  into  the  wings, 
and,  as  before,  she  stopped,  reared  angrily,  wheeled  about, 
and  came  back  plunging.  The  man  quieted  her  after  a  little, 
and  turned  her  again  toward  the  hurdle.  It  was  his  last 
chance.  She  came  up  sulkily,  tossing  her  head  and  edging 
away  from  the  bars.  As  he  got  near  the  wings  he  raised  his 
whip  again.  Then  the  people  in  that  part  of  the  Garden 
heard  a  girl's  shrill,  excited  voice  cry  out:  "You  mustn't 
hit  her!     Steady,  Lady  Washington!     Drop  your  curb!" 

The  black  mare's  ears  went  forward  at  the  sound  of  the 
voice.  The  young  man  on  her  back  put  down  his  uplifted 
whip  and  loosened  the  rein  on  the  bit.  He  glanced  around 
with  an  embarrassed  smile,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  over 
the  jump,  and  the  mare  was  galloping  for  the  hurdle  beyond. 

Suddenly  Angelica  became  conscious  that  several  thousand 
people  were  staring  at  her  with  looks  of  wonder  and  amuse- 
ment. Caroline  clutched  her  arm  and  dragged  her  away  from 
the  rail.     The  girl  colored,  and  shook  herself  free. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "He  shouldn't  have  hit  her. 
She  can  jump  anything  if  she  's  ridden  right.  I  knew  we  'd 
find  her, ' '  she  muttered  excitedly.     ' '  I  knew  it ! " 

Caroline  struggled  desperately  through  the  crowd  with  her 
charge. 

"Whatever  will  Miss  Cushing  say!"  she  gasped. 

Angelica  forgot  the  crowd.  "I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "If 
Aunt  Henrietta  had  ever  owned  Lady  Washington  she  'd  have 
done  the  same  thing.  And  if  you  tell  her  I  '11  pay  you  back. 
She  '11  know  that  you  let  me  leave  my  seat,  and  she  told  you 
not  to."     This  silenced  Caroline. 


122  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

"There!  He's  fussed  her  mouth  again,"  she  went  on. 
The  black  mare  had  refused,  and  was  rearing  at  the  jump  next 
the  last.  The  girl  stood  on  tiptoe  and  watched  impatiently 
for  a  moment. 

"There  she  goes,"  she  murmured,  with  a  sigh.  The  judges 
had  ordered  the  horse  out. 

Angelica  tagged  along  disconsolately  through  the  crowd  till 
a  conversation  between  two  men  who  were  leaning  against  the 
rail  caught  her  ear. 

"I  wonder  who  that  little  girl  was,"  said  one.  "The  mare 
seemed  to  know  her  voice,  but  Reggie  does  n  't  call  her  Lady 
Washington. ' ' 

"No — Hermione,"  said  the  other.  "He  may  have  changed 
it,  though,"  he  added.  "He  gives  them  all  names  beginning 
with  H." 

"You  Tl  have  an  easy  time  beating  him  in  the  five-foot-six 
jumps,"  said  the  first  man.  "It  's  a  good  mare,  but  he  can't 
ride  her." 

Angelica  wondered  who  they  were,  but  they  turned  around 
just  then,  aad  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  hurried  after  Caro- 
line. 

As  they  made  their  way  through  the  crowd,  a  nudge  from 
the  maid  took  her  thoughts  from  Lady  Washington.  She  had 
been  wondering  how  she  would  find  the  young  man  who  had 
ridden  her.  She  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  man  was  bowing 
to  her.  It  was  Mr.  "Billy"  Livingstone.  Mr.  Livingstone 
was  nearly  sixty,  but  he  had  certain  qualities  of  permanent 
youth  which  made  him  "Billy"  to  three  generations. 

"Hello,  Angelica!"  he  exclaimed.  "When  did  you  turn 
up  ?     How  you  Ve  grown ! ' ' 

"I  came  up  North  with  Jim,"  she  replied. 

"You  should  have  let  me  know,"  he  said.  "You  know  Jim 
never  writes  any  one.  This  is  the  first  time  I  've  been  here. 
I  'm  just  back  from  the  country.  Where  's  your  box — that  is, 
who  are  you  with  ? ' ' 

"I  'm  here  with  my  maid,"  said  Angelica,  with  a  somewhat 
conscious  dignity.     * '  Jim  is  with  the  horses, ' ' 


n 
( < 


DAVID  GRAY  123 

Livingstone  looked  from  the  slender  girl  to  the  substantial 
Caroline,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched. 

"I  prefer  to  be  alone  this  way,"  she  explained.  ''It  's 
more  independent." 

Mr.  Livingstone  thought  a  moment.  ' '  Of  course  that  's  so, ' ' 
he  said.  ''But  I  think  I  've  got  a  better  plan;  let  's  hunt  up 
Mrs.  Dicky  Everett. ' ' 

' '  Is  she  an  old  woman  ? ' '  asked  Angelica. 

"Not  so  terribly  old,"  said  Mr.  Livingstone.  "I  suppose 
you  'd  call  her  middle-aged." 

"Thirty?"  asked  Angelica. 
Near  it,  I  'm  afraid,"  he  answered. 

Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Angelica.     "That  's  pretty  old. 
She  won't  have  anything  to  say  to  me." 

"She  knows  something  about  a  horse,"  said  Livingstone, 
"though,  of  course,  she  can't  ride  the  way  you  do.  If  you 
find  her  stupid,  I  '11  take  you  away ;  but  I  want  you  to  come 
because  she  will  be  very  nice  to  me  for  bringing  you." 

He  turned  to  Caroline.  "I  'm  a  friend  of  Miss  Stanton's 
brother.  Go  to  your  seat,  and  I  '11  bring  Miss  Stanton  back 
to  you." 

Then  he  led  the  way  up  the  stairs,  and  Angelica  followed, 
wondering  what  sort  of  person  Mrs.  "Dicky"  Everett  might 
be. 

She  cheered  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  could  not  be 
any  older  or  more  depressing  than  Aunt  Henrietta,  and  if  she 
was  fond  of  horses  she  might  know  who  owned  Lady  Wash- 
ington. 

Livingstone  consulted  his  program.  "It  's  down  on  this 
side,"  he  said.  She  followed  him  mechanically,  with  her  eyes 
wandering  toward  the  ring,  till  presently  they  stopped. 

"Hello!"  she  heard  them  call  to  Livingstone,  as  he  stepped 
in  ahead  of  her,  and  the  next  moment  she  realized  that  she 
was  in  the  very  box  which  she  had  watched  from  her  seat 
among  the  chairs. 

"I  want  to  present  you  to  my  friend  Miss  Stanton,"  Liv- 
ingstone said.     He  repeated  the  names,  but  they  made  no 


124  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

impression  upon  her,  because  there,  standing  in  front  of  her, 
was  the  young  man  who  had  ridden  Lady  Washington. 

^'You  seem  to  know  each  other,"  said  Livingstone.  ''Am  I 
wasting  my  breath?     Is  this  a  joke?" 

He  looked  at  Angelica.  She  was  speechless  with  mixed  joy 
and  embarrassment. 

"Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  one  of  the  two  pretty  women, 
"and  sit  down  beside  me.  Miss  Stanton,"  she  went  on  to 
Livingstone,  "very  kindly  tried  to  teach  Reggie  how  to  ride 
Hermione,  and  we  are  glad  to  have  the  chance  to  thank  her." 

' '  I  don 't  understand  at  all, ' '  said  Livingstone.  ' '  But  there 
are  so  many  things  that  I  shall  never  understand  that  one 
more  makes  no  difference." 

Angelica's  self-confidence  began  to  come  back. 

"Why,  he  was  riding  Lady  Washington  with  a  whip,"  she 
explained.  "And  I  just  called  out  to  him  not  to.  You 
remember  Lady  Washington, — she  was  a  four-year-old  when 
you  were  at  the  Pines, — and  you  know  you  never  could  touch 
her  with  a  whip." 

"I  remember  very  well,"  said  Livingstone.  "You  flat- 
tered me  by  offering  to  let  me  ride  her,  an  offer  which,  I 
think,  I  declined.    When  did  you  sell  her?" 

"Two  years  ago,"  said  Angelica. 

Then  the  other  young  woman  spoke.  "But  how  did  you 
recognize  the  horse?"  she  asked.  "You  haven't  seen  it  for 
two  years." 

* '  Recognize  her  [ ' '  exclaimed  Angelica.  ' '  I  guess  if  you  had 
ever  owned  Lady  Washington  you  would  have  recognized  her. 
I  broke  her  as  a  two-year-old,  and  schooled  her  myself.  Jim 
says  she  's  the  best  mare  we  ever  had."  Angelica  looked  at 
the  woman  pityingly.  She  was  sweet-looking  and  had  beauti- 
ful clothes,  but  she  was  evidently  a  goose. 

"Miss  Stanton  won  the  high  jump  with  the  mare,"  Liv- 
ingstone remarked,  "at  their  hunt  show  down  in  Virginia." 

"It  was  only  six  feet,"  said  the  girl,  "but  she  can  do  better 
than  that.  Jim  wouldn't  let  me  ride  her  at  anything  big- 
ger. ' ' 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  the  lady  by  whose  side  she  was 


DAVID  GRAY  125 

sitting.     Then  she  asked  suddenly,  "You  are  not  Jimmie  Stan- 
ton's sister?" 

*'Yes,"  said  Angelica. 

' '  I  'd  like  to  know  why  he  has  n  't  brought  you  to  see  me ! " 

*'He  ^s  awfully  busy  with  the  horses/'  the  girl  replied. 
"He  has  to  stop  at  the  Waldorf  and  see  about  the  show  with 
the  men,  and  he  makes  me  stay  with  Aunt  Henrietta  Gush- 
ing." She  stopped  abruptly.  She  was  afraid  that  what  she 
had  said  might  sound  disloyal.  "I  like  to  stop  with  Aunt 
Henrietta,"  she  added  solemnly.  "Besides,  I  Ve  been  busy 
looking  for  Lady  Washington." 

The  young  man  whom  they  called  Reggie,  together  with 
Mr.  Livingstone  and  the  lady  beside  Angelica,  laughed  openly 
at  this  allusion  to  Miss  Gushing. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  asked  Angelica. 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  your  Aunt  Henrietta,"  said  the 
lady. 

"And  loves  her,"  added  Livingstone,  solemnly. 

The  lady  laughed  a  little.  "You  see,  she  's  connected  with 
nearly  everybody.  She  's  a  sort  of  connection  of  Reggie's 
and  mine,  so  I  suppose  we  're  sort  of  cousins  of  yours.  I  hope 
you  will  like  us. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  much  about  my  relations  on  my  mother's 
side,"  Angelica  observed.  The  distinction  between  connec- 
tions and  relatives  had  never  been  impressed  upon  her.  She 
was  about  to  add  that  Jim  said  that  his  New  York  relatives 
tired  him,  but  caught  herself.     She  paused  uneasily. 

"Please  excuse  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  didn't  hear  Mr.  Liv- 
ingstone introduce  me  to  you. ' ' 

"Why,"  said  Livingstone,  who  overheard,  "this  is  Mrs. 
Everett.     I  told  you  we  were  coming  into  her  box. ' ' 

"I  thought  she  must  have  stepped  out,"  said  Angelica. 
"You  told  me  she  was  middle-aged." 

A  peal  of  laughter  followed. 

"Angelica!     Angelica!"  Livingstone  exclaimed. 

"But  you  did,"  said  Angelica.     "I  asked  you  if  she  was  an 
old  lady,  and  you  said,  'Not  so  terribly  old — middle-aged. 
And  she  's  not ;  she  's  young. 


>  > 


126  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

"Things  can  never  be  as  they  were  before/'  said  Living- 
stone, mournfully,  as  the  laughter  died  away. 

"No/'  said  Mrs.  Everett. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  one  of  the  men  turned  to  Eeggie. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  five-foot-six  jumps?" 

' '  Let  it  go, ' '  said  Reggie. 

"It  's  a  pity, ' '  said  the  other.  * ' If  you  had  met  Miss  Stan- 
ton earlier  in  the  evening,  I  think  she  could  have  taught  you 
to  ride  that  mare.     I  wanted  to  see  you  win  your  bet. ' ' 

"Bet?"  said  Livingstone. 

"Reggie  's  such  an  idiot,"  said  Mrs.  Everett.  "He  bet 
Tommy  Post  that  Hermione  would  beat  his  chestnut  in  the 
five- foot-six  jumps,  and  Reggie  can't  make  Hermione  jump  at 
all,  so  he  's  lost." 

"Not  yet;  I  've  got  a  chance,"  said  Reggie,  good-naturedly. 
"Perhaps  I  '11  go  in,  after  all."     The  other  men  laughed. 

"I  should  think  you  had  made  monkey  enough  of  yourself 
for  one  evening,"  observed  Palfrey,  who  was  his  best  friend 
and  could  say  such  things. 

"Five  feet  six  would  be  easy  for  Lady  Washington,"  said 
Angelica.  "I  can't  get  used  to  calling  her  by  that  new 
name."  She  hesitated  a  moment  with  embarrassment,  and 
then  she  stammered:     "Why  don't  you  let  me  ride  her?" 

The  people  in  the  box  looked  aghast. 

"I  'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  do,"  said  Reggie,  seriously. 
"It  's  awfully  good  of  you,  but,  you  see,  it  would  n 't  look  well 
to  put  a  lady  on  that  horse.  Suppose  something  should  hap- 
pen?" 

"Good  of  me!"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "I  'd  love  it!.  I  want 
to  ride  her  again  so  much ! ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Reggie,  "I  '11  have  her  at  the  park  for  you  to- 
morrow morning.     You  can  ride  her  whenever  you  like. ' ' 

A  low  cry  of  alarm  ran  through  the  Garden,  and  the  conver- 
sation in  the  box  hushed.  A  tandem  cart  had  tipped  over, 
and  the  wheeler  was  kicking  it  to  pieces. 

"I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Everett,  with  a 
shudder. 

They  finally  righted  the  trap,  and  the  driver  limped  off  to 


DAVID  GRAY  127 

show  that  he  was  not  hurt.  The  great  crowd  seemed  to  draw 
a  long  breath  of  relief,  and  the  even  hum  of  voices  went  on 
again.  The  judges  began  to  award  the  ribbons,  and  Angelica 
looked  down  at  her  program. 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  saddle  class  I  'm  going 
to  ride  in  is  next.     I  'm  afraid  I  11  be  late.     Good-by. ' ' 

"Good-by,"  they  all  replied. 

"Don't  you  come,"  she  said  to  Livingstone.  "It  's  just  a 
step. ' ' 

* '  I  must  keep  my  word  with  Caroline, ' '  he  answered,  and  he 
took  her  to  her  seat. 

"She's  immense,  isn't  she?"  he  said,  as  he  came  back. 
"I  'm  glad  Reggie  did  n't  let  her  ride  that  brute.  She  will  be 
killed  one  of  these  days." 

"She  's  going  to  be  a  great  beauty,"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 

* '  She  looks  like  her  blessed  mother, ' '  said  Livingstone.  ' '  I 
was  very  fond  of  her  mother.  I  think  that  if  it  had  n  't  been 
for  Stanton — " 

"Stop!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Everett.  "Your  heart-tragedies 
are  too  numerous.  Besides,  if  you  had  married  her  you 
would  n  't  be  here  trying  to  tell  us  why  you  did  n  't. "  And 
they  all  laughed,  and  cheerfully  condemned  the  judging  of  the 
tandem  class. 

The  negro  groom  who  had  come  up  with  the  Stanton  horses 
met  Angelica  as  she  was  going  down-stairs  into  the  basement 
where  the  stalls  were.  Jim  had  not  appeared,  so  Angelica 
and  Caroline  had  started  off  alone. 

"Hilda  's  went  lame  behind.  Miss  Angie,"  the  man  said. 
"She  must  have  cast  huhself.  They  ain't  no  use  to  show 
huh." 

Ordinarily  this  calamity  would  have  disturbed  Angelica,  but 
the  discovery  of  Lady  Washington  was  a  joy  which  could  not 
be  dimmed. 

"Have  you  told  my  brother?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Miss  Angie,"  said  the  man.  "He  was  gwine  to  tell 
you." 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Angelica,  and  they  went  on 


128  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

toward  the  stall.     But  what  Angelica  most  wanted  was  to  get 
among  the  horses  and  look  for  a  certain  black  mare. 

Hilda  was  very  lame,  and  there  was  fever  in  the  hock. 
Angelica  patted  her  neck,  and  turned  away  with  a  side  glance 
at  Caroline,  who,  she  feared,  would  rebel  at  being  led  through 
the  horses'  quarters.  She  walked  down  the  row  of  stalls  till 
she  came  to  the  corner,  then  up  through  another  passage  till 
she  stopped  at  a  big  box-stall  over  the  side  of  which  stretched 
a  black  head  set  on  a  long,  thoroughbred-looking  neck. 

The  small,  fine  ears,  the  width  between  the  eyes,  the  square 
little  muzzle,  were  familiar ;  and  there  was  a  white  star  on  the 
forehead.  But  Angelica  did  not  enumerate  these  things. 
Horses  to  her  had  personalities  and  faces,  just  as  people  had 
them.  She  recognized  Lady  Washington  as  she  had  recog- 
nized Mr.  Livingstone.  She  made  a  little  exclamation,  and, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  put  her  arms  about  the  mare's  neck,  and 
kissed  it  again  and  again. 

*'The  dear!  She  remembers  me!"  the  girl  said,  wiping  her 
eyes.  *'It  's  Lady  Washington,"  she  explained  to  Caroline. 
She  reached  up  to  fondle  the  little  muzzle,  and  the  mare 
nipped  playfully. 

*'Look  out,  miss,"  called  the  stable-boy,  who  was  sitting  on 
a  soap-box;  *'she  's  mean." 

*  *  She  's  no  such  thing, ' '  said  the  girl. 

*'0h,  ain't  she?"  said  the  boy. 

*'Well,  if  she  is,  you  made  her  so,"  retorted  Angelica. 

The  boy  grinned.  "I  ain't  only  been  in  the  stable  two 
weeks, ' '  he  said.  *  *  She  caught  me  on  the  second  day  and  nigh 
broke  me  leg.  You  see  her  act  in  the  ring?  Mr.  Haughton 
says  he  won't  ride  her  no  more,  and  she  's  entered  in  the  five- 
foot-six  jumps." 

The  girl  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  boy  and  then  at  the 
horse.  An  idea  had  come  to  her.  She  was  reflecting  upon 
the  last  words  Mr.  Haughton  had  spoken  before  she  left  the 
box:     ^^You  can  ride  her  whenever  you  like.'* 

* '  I  know, ' '  she  said  aloud.  *  *  I  'm  going  to  ride  her  in  that 
class.     I  'm  Miss  Stanton.     I  used  to  own  her,  you  know.     My 


DAVID  GRAY  129 

saddle  is  down  there  with  Mr.  Stanton's  horses,  and  I  want 
you  to  go  and  get  it." 

''Oh,  never,  Miss  Angelica!"  exclaimed  Caroline.  "Dear 
me,  not  that!" 

"You  hush,"  said  Angelica. 

The  stable-boy  looked  at  her  incredulously.  "I  ain't  had 
no  orders,  miss,"  he  said.  "I  '11  have  to  see  William.  Did 
Mr.  Haughton  say  you  might  ? ' ' 

"Of  course  he  said  I  might,"  she  replied. 

The  boy  said  no  more  and  went  off  after  William. 

"Of  course  he  said  I  might,"  she  repeated  half  aloud. 
"Didn't  he  say  I  might  ride  her  'whenever  I  wanted  to'? 
'Whenever'  is  any  time,  and  I  want  to  now."  She  fortified 
herself  behind  this  sophistry,  but  she  was  all  in  a  flutter  lest 
Jim  or  Mr.  Haughton  should  appear.  The  thought,  however, 
of  being  on  Lady  Washington's  back,  and  showing  people 
that  she  wasn't  sulky  and  bad-tempered,  was  a  temptation 
too  strong  to  be  resisted. 

The  boy  came  back  with  the  head  groom,  to  whom  he  had 
explained  the  matter. 

"Why,  miss,"  said  William,  "she  'd  kill  you.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  show  her  myself.  Mr.  Haughton,  miss,  must  have 
been  joking.  Honest,  miss,  you  couldn't  ride  Hermione." 
The  man  was  respectful  but  firm. 

"Think  what  Miss  Gushing  would  say,"  said  Caroline. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  can,"  retorted  Angelica.  She  paid  no 
attention  to  Caroline;  her  temper  flashed  up.  "You  don't 
seem  to  understand.  I  owned  that  mare  when  she  was  Lady 
Washington,  and  broke  her  all  myself,  and  schooled  her,  too. 
Mr.  Haughton  hasn't  any  'hands,'  and  he  ought  to  know 
better  than  to  raise  a  whip  on  her." 

William  grinned  at  the  unvarnished  statement  about  his 
master's  "hands." 

"Are  you  the  young  lady  what  called  out  to  him  in  the 
ring?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Angelica.  "And  if  he  'd  done  what  I 
told  him  to  she  would  have  won.     Here  's  our  Emanuel,"  she 


130  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

went  on.  **He  11  tell  you  I  can  ride  her.  Emanuel,"  she 
demanded,  as  the  negro  approached,  ''haven't  I  ridden  Lady 
Washington  ? ' ' 

"You  jest  have,  Miss  Angle,"  said  Emanuel.  "Why," 
said  he,  turning  to  William,  "this  heah  young  lady  have  rode 
that  maah  ovah  six  feet.  She  done  won  the  high  jump  at 
ouah  hunt  show.  That  's  Lady  Washington  all  right,"  he 
went  on,  looking  at  the  head  poked  out  over  the  stall.  "I 
got  huh  maahk  on  mah  ahm  foh  to  remembah  huh." 

The  stable-boy  grinned. 
Well,  she  never  bit  me,"  said  Angelica. 
The  young  lady,"  said  William,  doubtfully,  "wants  to 
ride  her  in  the  five-foot-six  class.     She  says  Mr.  Haughton 
said  she  might." 

"Oh,  Miss  Angelica,"  interposed  Caroline,  "you  11  be  kilt !" 

"You  're  a  goose,"  said  Angelica.  "I  've  ridden  her  hun- 
dreds of  times." 

"I  don't  know  how  Mistah  Jim  would  like  it,"  said 
Emanuel;  "but  she  could  ride  that  maah  all  right,  you  jest 
bet." 

William  was  getting  interested.  He  was  not  so  concerned 
about  Mr.  Stanton's  likes  as  he  was  that  his  stable  should  take 
some  ribbons. 

"Mr.  Haughton  said  you  might  ride  her?"  he  repeated. 

"Of  course  he  did,"  said  Angelica;  "I  just  left  him  in  Mrs. 
Everett's  box,  and  I  've  got  my  own  saddle  and  everything." 

"All  right,  miss,"  said  William.     "Get  the  saddle,  Tim." 

William  did  not  believe  that  Mr.  Haughton  had  given  any 
such  orders,  but  he  had  gotten  into  trouble  not  long  before  by 
refusing  to  give  a  mount  to  a  friend  of  Haughton 's  whom  he 
did  not  know  and  who  came  armed  only  with  verbal  authority. 
He  knew  that  if  any  harm  was  done  he  could  hide  behind  that 
occurrence. 

"I  want  a  double-reined  snaffle,"  said  Angelica.  "Eman- 
uel," she  added,  "you  have  the  bit  I  used  to  ride  her  with. 
Bring  my  own  bridle." 

"I  'm  afraid  you  won't  be  able  to  hold  her,  miss,"  muttered 
William ;  ' '  but  it  's  as  you  say.     Hurry  up  with  that  saddle, ' ' 


DAVID  GRAY  131 

he  called  to  the  stable-boy.  "We  ain't  got  no  time  to  lose. 
They  're  callin'  the  class  now.  You  're  number  two,  miss; 
I  '11  get  your  number  for  you. ' ' 

' '  You  '11  be  kilt !  You  '11  be  kilt ! ' '  said  Caroline,  dolefully. 
' '  Think  what  Miss  Gushing  will  say ! ' ' 

^'Caroline,"  said  Angelica,  ''you  don't  know  anything 
about  horses,  so  you  hush."  And  then  she  added  under  her 
breath,  "  If  I  can  only  get  started  before  Jim  sees  me ! 


jf 


In  the  Everett  box  they  were  waiting  for  the  five-foot-six 
class  to  begin.  They  called  it  the  five-foot-six  class  because 
there  were  four  jumps  that  were  five  feet  six  inches  high ;  the 
others  were  an  even  five  feet.  It  was  the  "sensational  event" 
of  the  evening.     Thus  far  the  show  had  been  dull. 

"Those  saddle-horses  were  an  ordinary  lot,"  observed 
Reggie.  * 

"This  isn't  opening  very  well,  either,"  said  Palfrey.  The 
first  horse  had  started  out  by  refusing.  Then  he  floundered 
into  the  jump  and  fell. 

"Let  's  not  wait,"  said  Mrs.  Everett.  But  the  words  were 
hardly  spoken  when,  with  a  quick  movement,  she  turned  her 
glasses  on  the  ring.  Something  unusual  was  going  on  at  the 
farther  end.  A  ripple  of  applause  came  down  the  sides  of 
the  Garden,  and  then  she  saw  a  black  horse,  ridden  by  a  girl, 
come  cantering  toward  the  starting-place. 

"It  's  that  child  on  Hermione !  You  must  stop  it,  Reggie ! ' ' 
she  exclaimed  excitedly. 

Before  any  one  could  move,  Angelica  had  turned  the  horse 
toward  the  first  jump.  It  looked  terribly  high  to  Mrs. 
Everett.  It  was  almost  even  with  the  head  of  the  man  who 
was  standing  on  the  farther  side  ready  to  replace  the  bars  if 
they  should  be  knocked  down. 

Tossing  her  head  playfully,  the  black  mare  galloped  steadily 
for  the  wings,  took  off  in  her  stride,  and  swept  over  the  jump 
in  a  long  curve.  She  landed  noiselessly  on  the  tan-bark,  and 
was  on  again.  Around  the  great  ring  went  the  horse  and  the 
girl,  steadily,  not  too  fast,  and  taking  each  jump  without  a 
mistake.    The  great  crowd  remained  breathless  and  expect- 


132  HEll  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

ant.  Horse  and  rider  finished  in  front  of  the  Everett  box,  and 
pulled  up  to  a  trot,  the  mare  breathing  hard  with  excitement, 
but  well-mannered. 

Then  a  storm  of  cheers  and  hand-clapping  burst,  the  like  of 
which  was  never  heard  at  a  New  York  horse  show  before. 

As  the  applause  died  away,  Reggie  rose  and  hurried  out. 
"Let  's  all  go,"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 

Before  they  got  through  the  crowd  the  judges  had  awarded 
the  ribbons.  There  were  only  three  other  horses  that  went 
over  all  the  jumps,  and  none  of  them  made  a  clean  score. 
There  was  no  question  about  which  was  first.  The  judges  ran 
their  hands  down  the  mare's  legs  in  a  vain  search  for  lumps. 
She  was  short-coupled,  with  a  beautiful  shoulder  and  pow- 
erful quarters.  She  had  four  crosses  of  thoroughbred,  and 
showed  it. 

"She  's  a  picture  mare,"  said  one  of  the  judges,  and  he 
tied  the  blue  rosette  to  her  bridle  himself.  Then  the  great 
crowd  cheered  and  clapped  again,  and  Angelica  rode  down  to 
the  entrance  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  in  the  habit  of  taking 
blue  ribbons  daily.     But  inside  she  was  not  calm. 

"I  've  got  to  cry  or  something,"  she  thought. 

At  the  gate  some  one  came  out  of  the  crowd  and  took  the 
mare  by  the  head.  Angelica  looked  down,  and  there  were 
her  brother  and  Reggie  and  Mrs.  Everett's  party.  The  Gar- 
den began  to  swim. 

"Oh,  Jim!"  she  murmured,  "help  me  down.  It's  Lady 
Washington. ' '  Then  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
wept. 

They  were  at  supper  in  the  old  Waldorf  Palm  Room  before 
Angelica  was  quite  certain  whether  actual  facts  had  been 
taking  place  or  whether  she  had  been  dreaming.  It  seemed 
rather  too  extraordinary  and  too  pleasant  to  be  true.  Still, 
she  was  sure  that  she  was  there,  because  the  people  stared  at 
her  when  she  came  in  dressed  in  her  habit,  and  whispered  to 
each  other  about  her.  Furthermore,  a  party  of  judges  came 
over  and  asked  Mrs.  Everett  to  present  them. 


DAVID  GRAY  133 

There  never  before  was  quite  such  an  evening.  It  was  after 
twelve,  at  least,  and  nobody  had  suggested  that  she  ought  to 
be  in  bed.  One  pleasant  thing  followed  another  in  quick  suc- 
cession, and  there  seemed  no  end  to  them.  She  was  absorbed 
in  an  edible  rapture  which  Mrs.  Everett  called  a  "cafe  par- 
fait"  when  she  became  aware  that  Reggie's  friend,  Mr.  Pal- 
frey, had  started  to  address  the  party.  She  only  half  listened, 
because  she  was  wondering  why  every  one  except  Mrs.  Everett 
and  herself  had  denied  himself  this  delightful  sweet. 
Grown-up  people  had  strange  tastes. 

Mr.  Palfrey  began  by  saying  that  he  thought  it  was  time  to 
propose  a  toast  in  honor  of  Miss  Stanton,  which  might  also 
rechristen  Reggie's  mare  by  her  first  and  true  name,  "Lady 
Washington."  He  said  that  it  was  plain  to  him  that  the  mare 
had  resented  a  strange  name  out  of  Greek  mythology,  and  in 
future  would  go  kindly,  particularly  if  Reggie  never  tried  to 
ride  her  again. 

He  went  on  with  his  remarks,  and  from  time  to  time  the 
people  interrupted  with  laughter ;  but  it  was  only  a  meaning- 
less sound  in  Angelica's  ears.  The  words  "Reggie's  mare" 
had  come  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  She  had  forgotten  about 
that.  Her  knees  grew  weak  and  a  lump  swelled  in  her  throat. 
It  was  true,  of  course,  but  for  the  time  being  it  had  passed  out 
of  her  mind.  And  now  that  Lady  Washington  had  won  the 
five-foot-six  class  and  was  so  much  admired,  probably  Jim 
could  not  afford  to  buy  her  back.  It  was  doubtful  if  Mr. 
Haughton  would  sell  her  at  any  price. 

Presently  she  was  aroused  by  a  remark  addressed  directly 
to  her. 

' '  I  think  that 's  a  good  idea, ' '  said  Reggie.  ' '  Don 't 
you?" 

She  nodded;  but  she  did  not  know  what  the  idea  was,  and 
she  did  not  trust  her  voice  to  ask. 

"Only,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Palfrey,  "it  isn't  my 
mare  any  more ;  it  's  Miss  Stanton's.     Put  that  in,  Palfrey. " 

Angelica's  mouth  opened  in  wonderment  and  her  heart 
stood  still.     She  looked  about  the  table  blankly. 


134  HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

"It 's  SO,"  said  Reggie;  ''she  's  yours,'' 

"But  I  can't  take  her,"  she  said  falteringly.  "She  's  too 
valuable.     Can  I,  Jim?" 

* '  But  Jim  's  bought  her, ' '  said  Reggie,  hurriedly. 

Angelica's  eyes  settled  on  her  brother's  face;  he  said  noth- 
ing, but  began  to  smile;  Reggie  was  kicking  him  under  the 
table. 

"Yes,"  said  Reggie;  "when  I  saw  you  ride  Lady  Washing- 
ton, that  settled  it  with  me.  I  'm  too  proud  to  stand  being 
beaten  by  a  girl ;  so  I  made  Jim  buy  her  back  and  promise  to 
give  her  to  you. 

Do  you  mean  it?"  said  Angelica.     "Is  Lady  Washington 
really  mine? 


iier  Lu  yuu. 
"  Ljfj  yuu  I 

"Yes,"  he  said. 


She  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  sighed  wearily.  * '  It 
doesn't  seem  possible,"  she  murmured.  She  paused  and 
seemed  to  be  running  over  the  situation  in  her  mind.  Pres- 
ently she  spoke  as  if  unaware  that  the  others  were  listening. 
"I  knew  it  would  happen,  though,"  she  said.  "I  knew  it. 
I  reckon  I  prayed  enough."  She  smiled  as  a  great  thrill  of 
happiness  ran  through  her,  and  glancing  up,  saw  that  all  the 
rest  were  smiling,  too. 

"I  'm  so  happy,"  she  said  apologetically.  Then  she  be- 
thought herself,  and  furtively  reached  down  and  tapped  the 
frame  of  her  chair  with  her  knuckles. 

"Well,  here  's  the  toast,"  said  Mr.  Palfrey,  rising.  "To 
the  lady  and  Lady  Washington."  And  they  all  rose  and 
drank  it  standing. 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK^ 

By  JAIvIES  MATTHEW  BARRIE 

Long  before  I  married  George  I  knew  that  he  was  dread- 
fully ambitious.  We  were  not  yet  engaged  when  he  took  me 
into  his  confidence  about  his  forthcoming  great  book,  which 
was  to  take  the  form  of  an  inquiry  into  the  Metaphysics  of 
Ethics.  "I  have  not  begun  it  yet,"  he  always  said,  "but  I 
shall  be  at  it  every  night  once  the  winter  sets  in."  In  the 
daytime  George  is  only  a  clerk,  though  a  much-valued  one, 
so  that  he  has  to  give  the  best  hours  of  his  life  to  a  ledger. 

' '  If  you  only  had  more  time  at  your  disposal, ' '  I  used  to  say, 
when  he  told  me  of  the  book  that  was  to  make  his  name. 

"I  don't  complain,"  he  said,  heartily,  like  the  true  hero  he 
always  is,  except  when  he  has  to  take  medicine.  "Indeed, 
you  will  find  that  the  great  books  have  nearly  always  been 
written  by  busy  men.  I  am  firmly  of  opinion  that  if  a  man 
has  original  stuff  in  him  it  will  come  out. ' ' 

He  glowed  with  enthusiasm  while  he  spoke  in  this  inspiriting 
strain,  and  some  of  his  ardor  passed  into  me.  When  we  met 
we  talked  of  nothing  but  his  future ;  at  least  he  talked  while  I 
listened  with  clasped  hands.  It  was  thus  that  we  became  en- 
gaged. George  was  no  ordinary  lover.  He  did  not  waste  his 
time  telling  me  that  I  was  beautiful,  or  saying  ' '  Beloved ! "  at 
short  intervals.  No,  when  we  were  alone  he  gave  me  his  hand 
to  hold,  and  spoke  fervently  of  the  Metaphysics  of  Ethics. 

Our  engagement  was  not  of  a  very  long  duration,  for  George 
coaxed  me  into  marriage  thus — "I  cannot  settle  down  to  my 
book,"  he  said,  "until  we  are  married." 

His  heart  was  so  set  on  that  book  that  I  yielded.  We  wan- 
dered all  over  London  together  buying  the  furniture.     There 

1  From  Two  of  Them.     Copyright,  1893,  by  the  United  States  Book  Co. 

135 


136  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK 

was  a  settee  that  I  particularly  wanted,  but  George,  with  his 
usual  thoughtfulness,  said: 

"Let  us  rather  buy  a  study  table.  It  will  help  me  at  my 
work,  aud  once  the  book  is  out  we  shall  be  able  to  afford  half  a 
dozen  settees." 

Another  time  he  went  alone  to  buy  some  pictures  for  the 
drawing-room. 

"I  got  a  study  chair  instead,"  he  told  me  in  the  evening. 
''I  knew  you  would  not  mind,  my  darling,  for  the  chair  is  the 
very  thing  for  writing  a  big  book  in. ' ' 

He  even  gave  thought  to  the  ink-bottle. 

"In  my  room,"  he  said,  "I  am  constantly  discovering  that 
my  ink-bottle  is  empty,  and  it  puts  me  out  of  temper  to  write 
with  water  and  soot.  I  therefore  think  we  ought  to  buy  one  of 
those  large  ink-stands  with  two  bottles." 

"We  shall,"  I  replied,  with  the  rapture  of  youth,  "and 
mine  will  be  the  pleasant  task  of  seeing  that  the  bottles  are 
kept  full." 

"Dearest!"  he  said,  fondly,  for  this  was  the  sort  of  re- 
mark that  touched  him  most. 

"Every  evening,"  I  continued,  encouraged  by  his  caress- 
ing tones,  *'yovL  will  find  your  manuscripts  lying  on  the  table 
waiting  for  you,  and  a  pen  with  a  new  nib  in  it. ' ' 

"What  a  wife  you  will  make!"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  you  mustn't  write  too  much,"  I  said.  "You  must 
have  fixed  hours,  and  at  a  certain  time,  say  at  ten  o'clock,  I 
shall  insist  on  your  ceasing  to  write  for  the  night." 

"That  seems  a  wise  arrangement.  But  sometimes  I  shall 
be  too  entranced  in  the  work,  I  fancy,  to  leave  it  without  an 
effort." 

"Ah,"  I  said,  "I  shall  come  behind  you,  and  snatch  the  pen 
from  your  hand !" 

"Every  Saturday  night,"  he  said,  "I  shall  read  to  you 
what  I  have  written  during  the  week." 

No  wonder  I  loved  him. 

We  were  married  on  a  September  day,  and  the  honeymoon 
passed  delightfully  in  talk  about  the  book.  Nothing  proved 
to  me  the  depth  of  George's  affection  so  much  as  his  not  begin- 


i  i 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE  137 

ning  the  great  work  before  the  honeymoon  was  over.  So  I 
often  told  him,  and  he  smiled  fondly  in  reply.  The  more, 
indeed,  I  praised  him  the  better  pleased  he  seemed  to  be. 
The  name  for  this  is  sympathy. 

Conceive  us  at  home  in  our  dear  little  house  in  Clapham. 

''Will  you  begin  the  book  at  once?"  I  asked  George  the 
day  after  we  arrived. 

''I  have  been  thinking  that  over,"  he  said.  ''I  needn't 
tell  you  that  there  is  nothing  I  should  like  so  much,  but,  on 
the  whole,  it  might  be  better  to  wait  a  week." 

Don't  make  the  sacrifice  for  my  sake,"  I  said,  anxiously. 
'  Of  course  it  is  for  your  sake, ' '  he  replied. 
But  it  is  such  a  pity  to  waste  any  more  time,"  I  said. 
There  is  no  such  hurry,"  he  answered,  rather  testily. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"What  I  mean,"  he  said,  "is  that  I  can  be  thinking  the 
arrangement  of  the  book  over." 

We  had,  of  course,  a  good  many  callers  at  this  time,  and 
I  told  most  of  them  about  the  book.  For  reasons  to  be  seen 
by  and  by  I  regret  this  now. 

When  the  week  had  become  a  fortnight,  I  insisted  on  leav- 
ing George  alone  in  the  study  after  dinner.  He  looked  rather 
gloomy,  but  I  filled  the  ink-bottles,  and  put  the  paper  on  the 
desk,  and  handed  him  his  new  pen.  He  took  it,  but  did  not 
say  ''thank  you." 

An  hour  afterward  I  took  him  a  cup  of  tea.  He  was  still 
sitting  by  the  fire,  but  the  pen  had  fallen  from  his  hands. 

"You  are  not  sleeping,  George?"  I  asked. 

"Sleeping!"  he  cried,  as  indignantly  as  if  I  had  charged 
him  with  crime.     "No,  I  'm  thinking." 

"You  haven't  written  any  yet?" 

"I  was  just  going  to  begin  when  you  came  in.  I  '11  be- 
gin as  soon  as  T  Ve  drunk  this  tea. ' ' 

' '  Then  I  '11  leave  you  to  your  work,  dear. ' ' 

I  returned  to  the  studv  at  nine  o'clock.  He  was  still  in 
the  same  attitude. 

I  wish  you  would  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,"  he  said. 
I  brought  you  one  hours  ago." 


138  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK 

''Eh?     Why  didn't  you  tell  meV 

''Oh,  George!  I  talked  with  you  about  it.  Why,  here 
it  is  on  the  table,  untouched." 

"I  declare  you  never  mentioned  it  to  me.  I  must  have 
been  thinking  so  deeply  that  I  never  noticed  you.  You  should 
have  spoken  to  me." 

' '  But  I  did  speak,  and  you  answered. ' ' 
"My  dear,  I  assure  you  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.     This  is 
very  vexing,  for  it  has  spoiled  my  evening's  work." 

The  next  evening  George  said  that  he  did  not  feel  in  the 
mood  for  writing,  and  I  suppose  I  looked  disappointed,  for 
he  flared  up. 

"I  can't  be  eternally  writing,"  he  growled. 
'  *  But  you  have  n  't  done  anything  at  all  yet. ' ' 
"That  is  a  rather  ungenerous  way  of  expressing  it." 
"But  you  spoke  as  if  the  work  would  be  a  pleasure." 
"Have  I  said  that  it  is  not  a  pleasure?     If  you  knew  any- 
thing of  literary  history,  you  would  be  aware  that  there  are 
occasions  when  the  most  industrious  writers  cannot  pen  a 
line.'^ 

' '  They  must  make  a  beginning  some  time,  though ! " 
"Well,  I  shall  make  a  beginning  to-morrow." 
Next  evening  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go  into  the  study. 
"I  '11  hang  the  bedroom  pictures,"  he  said. 
"No,  no,  you  must  get  begone  to  your  book." 
"You  are  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  see  me  at  that  book." 
"You  spoke  as  if  you  were  so  anxious  to  begin  it." 
\"  So  I  am.     Did  I  say  I  was  n  't  ? " 

He  marched  off  to  the  study,  banging  the  drawing-room 
door.  An  hour  or  so  afterward  I  took  him  his  tea.  He  had 
left  his  study  door  open  so  that  I  could  see  him  on  the  couch 
before  I  entered  the  room.  When  he  heard  the  rattle  of  the 
tea-things  he  jumped  up  and  strode  to  the  study  table,  where, 
when  I  entered,  he  pretended  to  be  busy  writing. 

"How  are  you  getting  on,  dear?"  I  asked,  with  a  sinking 
at  the  heart. 

"Excellently,  my  love,  excellently." 

I  looked  at  him  so  reproachfully  that  he  blushed. 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE  139 

**I  think,"  said  he,  when  he  had  drunk  the  tea,  ''that  I 
have  done  enough  for  one  night.     I  must  n  't  overdo  it. ' ' 

''Won't  you  let  me  hear  what  you  have  written?" 

He  blushed  again. 

"Wait  till  Saturday,"  he  said. 

"Then  let  me  put  your  papers  away,"  I  said,  for  I  was 
anxious  to  see  whether  he  had  written  anything  at  all. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  replied,  covering  the  paper 
with  his  elbows. 

Next  morning  I  counted  the  clean  sheets  of  paper.  They 
were  just  as  I  had  put  them  on  the  table.  So  it  went  on  for 
a  fortnight  or  more,  with  this  difference.  He  either  sus- 
pected that  I  counted  the  sheets,  or  thought  that  I  might  take 
it  into  my  head  to  do  so.  To  allay  my  suspicions,  therefore, 
he  put  away  what  he  called  his  manuscript  in  a  drawer,  which 
he  took  care  to  lock.  I  discovered  that  one  of  my  own  keys 
opened  this  drawer,  and  one  day  I  examined  the  manuscripts. 
They  consisted  of  t^venty-four  pages  of  paper,  without  a  word 
written  on  them.  Every  evening  he  added  two  more  clean 
pages  to  the  contents  of  the  drawer.  This  discovery  made 
me  so  scornful  that  I  taxed  him  with  the  deceit.  At  first 
he  tried  to  brazen  it  out,  but  T  was  merciless,  and  then  he  said  : 

"The  fact  is  that  I  can't  write  by  gas-light.  I  fear  I  shall 
have  to  defer  beginning  the  work  until  spring." 

' '  But  you  used  to  say  that  the  winter  was  the  best  season  for 
writing. ' ' 

' '  I  thought  so  at  the  time,  but  I  find  I  was  wrong.  It  will 
be  a  great  blow  to  me  to  give  up  the  work  for  the  present, 
but  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

When  spring  came  I  reminded  him  that  now  was  his  op- 
portunity to  begin  the  book. 

"You  are  eternally  talking  about  that  book,"  he  snarled. 

"I  haven't  mentioned  it  for  a  month." 

"Well,  you  are  always  looking  at  me  as  if  I  should  be  at 
it." 

"Because  you  used  to  speak  so  enthusiastically  about  it." 

"I  am  as  enthusiastic  as  ever,  but  I  can't  be  forever  writ- 
ing  at  the  book." 


140  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK 


' '  We  have  now  been  married  seven  months,  and  you  have  n  't 
written  a  line  yet/' 

'  He  banged  the  doors  again,  and  a  week  afterward  he  said 
that  spring  was  a  bad  time  for  writing  a  book. 

' '  One  likes  to  be  out-of-doors, ' '  he  said,  ' '  in  spring,  watch- 
ing the  trees  become  green  again.  Wait  till  July,  when  one 
is  glad  to  be  indoors.  Then  I  '11  give  four  hours  to  the  work 
every  evening." 

Summer  came,  and  then  he  said : 

' '  It  is  too  hot  to  write  books.  Get  me  another  bottle  of  iced 
soda-water.     I  '11  tackle  the  book  in  the  autumn." 

We  have  now  been  married  more  than  five  years,  but  the 
book  is  not  begun  yet.  As  a  rule,  we  now  shun  the  subject, 
but  there  are  times  when  he  still  talks  hopefully  of  begin- 
ning,   I  wonder  if  there  are  any  other  husbands  like  mine. 


WAR 

By  JACK  LONDON 

He  was  a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty-four  or  five, 
and  he  might  have  sat  his  horse  with  the  careless  grace  of  his 
youth  had  he  not  been  so  catlike  and  tense.  His  black  eyes 
roved  everywhere,  catching  the  movements  of  twigs  and 
branches  where  small  birds  hopped,  questing  ever  onward 
through  the  changing  vistas  of  trees  and  brush,  and  returning 
always  to  the  clumps  of  undergrowth  on  either  side.  And 
as  he  watched,  so  did  he  listen,  though  he  rode  on  in  silence, 
save  for  the  boom  of  heavy  guns  from  far  to  the  west.  This 
had  been  sounding  monotonously  in  his  ears  for  hours,  and 
only  its  cessation  would  have  aroused  his  notice.  For  he  had 
business  closer  to  hand.  Across  his  saddle-bow  was  balanced 
a  carbine. 

So  tensely  was  he  strung,  that  a  bunch  of  quail,  exploding 
into  flight  from  under  his  horse's  nose,  startled  him  to  such 
an  extent  that  automatically,  instantly,  he  had  reined  in  and 
fetched  the  carbine  halfway  to  his  shoulder.  He  grinned 
sheepishly,  recovered  himself,  and  rode  on.  So  tense  was 
he,  so  bent  upon  the  work  he  had  to  do,  that  the  sweat  stung 
his  eyes  unwiped,  and  unheeded  rolled  down  his  nose  and 
spattered  his  saddle  pommel.  The  band  of  his  cavalryman's 
hat  was  fresh-stained  with  sweat.  The  roan  horse  under  him 
was  likewise  wet.  It  was  high  noon  of  a  breathless  day  of 
heat.  Even  the  birds  and  squirrels  did  not  dare  the  sun,  but 
sheltered  in  shady  hiding  places  among  the  trees. 

Man  and  horse  were  littered  with  leaves  and  dusted  with 

yellow  pollen,  for  the  open  was  ventured  no  more  than  was 

compulsory.     They  kept  to  the  brush  and  trees,  and  invariably 

the  man  halted  and  peered  out  before  crossing  a  dry  glade  or 

naked  stretch  of  upland  pasturage.     He  worked  always  to 

the  north,  though  his  way  was  devious,  and  it  was  from  the 

141 


142  WAR 

north  that  he  seemed  most  to  apprehend  that  for  which  he 
was  looking.  He  was  no  coward,  but  his  courage  was  only 
that  of  the  average  civilized  man,  and  he  was  looking  to  live, 
not  die. 

Up  a  small  hillside  he  followed  a  cowpath  through  such 
dense  scrub  that  he  was  forced  to  dismount  and  lead  his 
horse.  But  when  the  path  swung  around  to  the  west,  he 
abandoned  it  and  headed  to  the  north  again  along  the  oak- 
covered  top  of  the  ridge. 

The  ridge  ended  in  a  steep  descent — so  steep  that  he  zig- 
zagged back  and  forth  across  the  face  of  the  slope,  sliding  and 
stumbling  among  the  dead  leaves  and  matted  vines  and  keep- 
ing a  watchful  eye  on  the  horse  above  that  threatened  to 
fall  down  upon  him.  The  sweat  ran  from  him,  and  the  pollen- 
dust,  settling  pungently  in  mouth  and  nostrils,  increased  his 
thirst.  Try  as  he  would,  nevertheless  the  descent  was  noisy, 
and  frequently  he  stopped,  panting  in  the  dry  heat  and  listen- 
ing for  any  warning  from  beneath. 

At  the  bottom  he  came  out  on  a  flat,  so  densely  forested  that 
he  could  not  make  out  its  extent.  Here  the  character  of  the 
woods  changed,  and  he  was  able  to  remount.  Instead  of  the 
twisted  hillside  oaks,  tall  straight  trees,  big-trunked  and  pros- 
perous, rose  from  the  damp  fat  soil.  Only  here  and  there 
were  thickets,  easily  avoided,  while  he  encountered  winding, 
park-like  glades  where  the  cattle  had  pastured  in  the  days 
before  war  had  run  them  off. 

His  progress  was  more  rapid  now,  as  he  came  down  into 
the  valley,  and  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  halted  at  an 
ancient  rail  fence  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing.  He  did  not  like 
the  openness  of  it,  yet  his  path  lay  across  to  the  fringe  of 
trees  that  marked  the  banks  of  the  stream.  It  was  a  mere 
quarter  of  a  mile  across  that  open,  but  the  thought  of  ven- 
turing out  in  it  was  repugnant.  A  rifle,  a  score  of  them, 
a  thousand,  might  lurk  in  that  fringe  by  the  stream. 

Twice  he  essayed  to  start,  and  twice  he  paused.  He  was 
appalled  by  his  own  loneliness.  The  pulse  of  war  that  beat 
from  the  west  suggested  the  companionship  of  battling  thou- 
sands ;  here  was  naught  but  silence,  and  himself,  and  possible 


JACK  LONDON  143 

death-dealing  bullets  from  a  myriad  ambushes.  And  yet 
his  task  was  to  find  what  he  feared  to  find.  He  must  go  on, 
and  on,  till  somewhere,  some  time,  he  encountered  another 
man,  or  other  men,  from  the  other  side,  scouting,  as  he  was 
scouting,  to  make  report,  as  he  must  make  report,  of  having 
come  in  touch. 

Changing  his  mind,  he  skirted  inside  the  woods  for  a  dis- 
tance, and  again  peeped  forth.  This  time,  in  the  middle 
of  the  clearing,  he  saw  a  small  farmhouse.  There  were  no 
signs  of  life.  No  smoke  curled  from  the  chimney,  not  a 
barnyard  fowl  clucked  and  strutted.  The  kitchen  door  stood 
open,  and  he  gazed  so  long  and  hard  into  the  black  aperture 
that  it  seemed  almost  that  a  farmer's  wife  must  emerge  at 
any  moment. 

He  licked  the  pollen  and  dust  from  his  dry  lips,  stiffened 
himself,  mind  and  body,  and  rode  out  into  the  blazing  sun- 
shine. Nothing  stirred.  He  went  on  past  the  house,  and 
approached  the  wall  of  trees  and  bushes  by  the  river's  bank. 
One  thought  persisted  maddeningly.  It  was  of  the  crash 
into  his  body  of  a  high-velocity  bullet.  It  made  him  feel  very 
fragile  and  defenseless,  and  he  crouched  lower  in  the  saddle. 

Tethering  his  horse  in  the  edge  of  the  wood,  he  continued 
a  hundred  yards  on  foot  till  he  came  to  the  stream.  Twenty 
feet  wide  it  was,  without  perceptible  current,  cool  and  invit- 
ing, and  he  was  very  thirsty.  But  he  waited  inside  his  screen 
of  leafage,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  screen  on  the  opposite  side. 
To  make  the  wait  endurable,  he  sat  down,  his  carbine  resting 
on  his  knees.  The  minutes  passed,  and  slowly  his  tenseness 
relaxed.  At  last  he  decided  there  was  no  danger ;  but  just  as 
he  prepared  to  part  the  bushes  and  bend  down  to  the  water, 
a  movement  among  the  opposite  bushes  caught  his  eye. 

It  might  be  a  bird.  But  he  waited.  Again  there  was  an 
agitation  of  the  bushes,  and  then,  so  suddenly  that  it  almost 
startled  a  cry  from  him,  the  bushes  parted  and  a  face  peered 
out.  It  was  a  face  covered  with  several  weeks'  growth  of 
ginger-colored  beard.  The  eyes  were  blue  and  wide  apart, 
with  laughter-wrinkles  in  the  corners  that  showed  despite 
the  tired  and  anxious  expression  of  the  whole  face. 


144  WAR 

All  this  he  could  see  with  microscopic  clearness,  for  the 
distance  was  no  more  than  twenty  feet.  And  all  this  he  saw 
in  such  brief  time,  that  he  saw  it  as  he  lifted  his  carbine  to  his 
shoulder.  He  glanced  along  the  sights,  and  knew  that  he 
was  gazing  upon  a  man  who  was  as  good  as  dead.  It  was 
impossible  to  miss  at  such  point  blank  range. 

But  he  did  not  shoot.  Slowly  he  lowered  the  carbine  and 
watched.  A  hand,  clutching  a  water-bottle,  became  visible 
and  the  ginger  beard  bent  downward  to  fill  the  bottle.  He 
could  hear  the  gurgle  of  the  water.  Then  arm  and  bottle 
and  ginger  beard  disappeared  behind  the  closing  bushes.  A 
long  time  he  waited,  when,  with  thirst  unslaked,  he  crept  back 
to  his  horse,  rode  slowly  across  the  sun-washed  clearing,  and 
passed  into  the  shelter  of  the  woods  beyond. 

II 

Another  day,  hot  and  breathless.  A  deserted  farmhouse, 
large,  with  many  outbuildings  and  an  orchard,  standing  in 
a  clearing.  From  the  woods,  on  a  roan  horse,  carbine  across 
pommel,  rode  the  young  man  with  the  quick  black  eyes.  He 
breathed  with  relief  as  he  gained  the  house.  That  a  fight 
had  taken  place  here  earlier  in  the  season  was  evident.  Clips 
and  empty  cartridges,  tarnished  with  verdigris,  lay  on  the 
ground,  which,  while  wet,  had  been  torn  up  by  the  hoofs  of 
horses.  Hard  by  the  kitchen  garden  were  graves,  tagged  and 
numbered.  From  the  oak  tree  by  the  kitchen  door,  in  tat- 
tered, weather-beaten  garments,  hung  the  bodies  of  two  men. 
The  faces,  shriveled  and  defaced,  bore  no  likeness  to  the  faces 
of  men.  The  roan  horse  snorted  beneath  them,  and  the  rider 
caressed  and  soothed  it  and  tied  it  farther  away. 

Entering  the  house,  he  found  the  interior  a  wreck.  He 
trod  on  empty  cartridges  as  he  walked  from  room  to  room 
to  reconnoiter  from  the  windows.  Men  had  camped  and 
slept  everywhere,  and  on  the  floor  of  one  room  he  came  upon 
stains  unmistakable  where  the  wounded  had  been  laid  down. 

Again  outside,  he  led  the  horse  around  behind  the  barn 
and  invaded  the  orchard.     A  dozen  trees  were  burdened  with 


JACK  LONDON  145 

ripe  apples.  He  filled  his  pockets,  eating  while  he  picked. 
Then  a  thought  came  to  him,  and  he  glanced  at  the  sun,  cal- 
culating the  time  of  his  return  to  camp.  He  pulled  off  his 
shirt,  tying  the  sleeves  and  making  a  bag.  This  he  pro- 
ceeded to  fill  with  apples. 

As  he  was  about  to  mount  his  horse,  the  animal  suddenly- 
pricked  up  its  ears.  The  man,  too,  listened,  and  heard, 
faintly,  the  thud  of  hoofs  on  soft  earth.  He  crept  to  the 
corner  of  the  barn  and  peered  out.  A  dozen  mounted  men, 
strung  out  loosely,  approaching  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  clearing,  were  only  a  matter  of  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
away.  They  rode  on  to  the  house.  Some  dismounted,  while 
others  remained  in  the  saddle  as  an  earnest  that  their  stay 
would  be  short.  They  seemed  to  be  holding  a  council,  for  he 
could  hear  them  talking  excitedly  in  the  detested  tongue  of 
the  alien  invader.  The  time  passed,  but  they  seemed  unable 
to  reach  a  decision.  He  put  the  carbine  away  in  its  boot, 
mounted,  and  waited  impatiently,  balancing  the  shirt  of 
apples  on  the  pommel. 

He  heard  footsteps  approaching,  and  drove  his  spurs  so 
fiercely  into  the  roan  as  to  force  a  surprised  groan  from  the 
animal  as  it  leaped  forward.  At  the  corner  of  the  barn  he 
saw  the  intruder,  a  mere  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty  for  all 
of  his  uniform,  jump  back  to  escape  being  run  down.  At  the 
same  moment  the  roan  swerved,  and  its  rider  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  aroused  men  by  the  house.  Some  were  springing  from 
their  horses,  and  he  could  see  the  rifles  going  to  their  shoul- 
ders. He  passed  the  kitchen  door  and  the  dried  corpses 
swinging  in  the  shade,  compelling  his  foes  to  run  around  the 
front  of  the  house.  A  rifle  cracked,  and  a  second,  but  he  was 
going  fast,  leaning  forward,  low  in  the  saddle,  one  hand 
clutching  the  shirt  of  apples,  the  other  guiding  the  horse. 

The  top  bar  of  the  fence  was  four  feet  high,  but  he  knew 
his  roan  and  leaped  it  at  full  career  to  the  accompaniment  of 
several  scattered  shots.  Eight  hundred  yards  straight  away 
were  the  woods,  and  the  roan  was  covering  the  distance  with 
mighty  strides.  Every  man  was  now  firing.  They  were 
pumping  their  guns  so  rapidly  that  he  no  longer  heard  in- 


146  WAR 

dividual  shots.  A  bullet  went  through  his  hat,  but  he  was 
unaware,  though  he  did  know  when  another  tore  through 
the  apples  on  the  pommel.  And  he  winced  and  ducked  even 
lower  when  a  third  bullet,  fired  low,  struck  a  stone  between 
his  horse's  legs  and  ricochetted  off  through  the  air,  buzzing 
and  humming  like  some  incredible  insect. 

The  shots  died  down  as  the  magazines  were  emptied,  until, 
quickly,  there  was  no  more  shooting.  The  young  man  was 
elated.  Through  that  astonishing  fusillade  he  had  come  un- 
scathed. He  glanced  back.  Yes,  they  had  emptied  their 
magazines.  He  could  see  several  reloading.  Others  were 
running  back  behind  the  house  for  their  horses.  As  he  looked, 
two  already  mounted,  came  back  into  view  around  the  corner, 
riding  hard.  And  at  the  same  moment,  he  saw  the  man 
with  the  unmistakable  ginger  beard  kneel  down  on  the  ground, 
level  his  gun,  and  coolly  take  his  time  for  the  long  shot. 

The  young  man  threw  his  spurs  into  the  horse,  crouched 
very  low,  and  swerved  in  his  flight  in  order  to  distract  the 
other's  aim.  And  still  the  shot  did  not  come.  With  each 
jump  of  the  horse,  the  woods  sprang  nearer.  They  were 
only  two  hundred  yards  away,  and  still  the  shot  was  delayed. 

And  then  he  heard  it,  the  last  thing  he  was  to  hear,  for  he 
was  dead  ere  he  hit  the  ground  in  the  long  crashing  fall  from 
the  saddle.  And  they,  watching  at  the  house,  saw  him  fall, 
saw  his  body  bounce  when  it  struck  the  earth,  and  saw  the 
burst  of  red-cheeked  apples  that  rolled  about  him.  They 
laughed  at  the  unexpected  eruption  of  apples,  and  clapped 
their  hands  in  applause  of  the  long  shot  by  the  man  with  the 
ginger  beard. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

By  MOKGAN  ROBERTSON 

Extract  from  hospital  record  of  the  case  of  John  Ander- 
son, patient  of  Dr.  Brown,  Ward  3,  Room  6  : 

August  3.  Arrived  at  hospital  in  extreme  mental  distress,  having 
been  bitten  on  the  wrist  three  hours  previously  by  dog  known  to 
have  been  rabid.  Large,  strong  man,  lull-blooded  and  well  nour- 
ished. Sanguine  temperament.  Pulse  and  temperature  higher  than 
normal,  due  to  excitement.  Cauterized  wound  at  once  (2  p.m.)  and 
inoculated  with  antitoxin. 

As  patient  admits  having  recently  escaped,  by  swimming  ashore, 
from  lately  arrived  cholera  ship,  now  at  quarantine,  he  has  been 
isolated  and  clothing  disinfected.     Watch  for  symptoms  of  cholera. 

August  3,  6  p.  M.  Microscopic  examination  of  blood  corrobora- 
tive of  Metschnikoff's  theory  of  fighting  leucocytes.  White  cor- 
puscles gorged  with  bacteria. 

He  was  an  amphibian,  and,  as  such,  undeniably  beautiful ; 
for  the  sunlight,  refracted  and  diffused  in  the  water,  gave  his 
translucent,  pearl-blue  body  all  the  shifting  colors  of  the 
spectrum.  Vigorous  and  graceful  of  movement,  in  shape  he 
resembled  a  comma  of  three  dimensions,  twisted,  when  at  rest, 
to  a  slight  spiral  curve ;  but  in  traveling  he  straightened  out 
with  quick  successive  jerks,  each  one  sending  him  ahead  a 
couple  of  lengths.  Supplemented  by  the  undulatory  move- 
ment of  a  long  continuation  of  his  tail,  it  was  his  way  of 
swimming,  good  enough  to  enable  him  to  escape  his  enemies; 
this,  and  riding  at  anchor  in  a  current  by  his  cable-like  ap- 
pendage, constituting  his  main  occupation  in  life.  The  pleas- 
ure of  eating  was  denied  him ;  nature  had  given  him  a  mouth, 
but  he  used  it  only  for  purposes  of  offense  and  defense,  ab- 
sorbing his  food  in  a  most  unheard-of  manner — through  the 

soft  walls  of  his  body. 

147 


148  THE  battle!  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

Yet  he  enjoyed  a  few  social  pleasures.  Though  the  organs 
of  the  live  senses  were  missing  in  his  economy,  he  possessed  an 
inner  sixth  sense  which  answered  for  all  and  also  gave  him 
power  of  speech.  He  would  converse,  swap  news  and  views, 
with  creatures  of  his  own  and  other  species,  provided  that  they 
were  of  equal  size  and  prowess;  but  he  wasted  no  time  on 
any  but  his  social  peers.  Smaller  creatures  he  pursued  when 
they  annoyed  him;  larger  ones  pursued  him. 

The  sunlight,  which  made  him  so  beautiful  to  look  at,  was 
distasteful  to  him;  it  also  made  him  too  visible.  He  pre- 
ferred a  half -darkness  and  less  fervor  to  life's  battle — time  to 
judge  of  chances,  to  figure  on  an  enemy's  speed  and  turning- 
circle,  before  beginning  flight  or  pursuit.  But  his  dislike  of 
it  really  came  of  a  stronger  animus — a  shuddering  recollec- 
tion of  three  hours  once  passed  on  dry  land  in  a  comatose 
condition,  which  had  followed  a  particularly  long  and  in- 
tense period  of  bright  sunlight.  He  had  never  been  able  to 
explain  the  connection,  but  the  awful  memory  still  saddened 
his  life. 

And  now  it  seemed,  as  he  swam  about,  that  this  experience 
might  be  repeated.  The  light  was  strong  and  long-continued, 
the  water  uncomfortably  warm,  and  the  crowd  about  him 
denser — so  much  so  as  to  prevent  him  from  attending  properly 
to  a  social  inferior  who  had  crossed  his  bow.  But  just  as  his 
mind  grasped  the  full  imminence  of  the  danger,  there  came 
a  sudden  darkness,  a  crash  and  vibration  of  the  water,  then  a 
terrible,  rattling  roar  of  sound.  The  social  inferior  slipped 
from  his  mouth,  and  with  his  crowding  neighbors  was  washed 
far  away,  while  he  felt  himself  slipping  along,  bounding  and 
rebounding  against  the  projections  of  a  corrugated  wall 
which  showed  white  in  the  gloom.  There  was  an  unpleasant 
taste  to  the  water,  and  he  became  aware  of  creatures  in  his 
vicinity  unlike  any  he  had  known, — quickly  darting  little 
monsters  about  a  tenth  as  large  as  himself, — thousands  of 
them,  black  and  horrid  to  see,  each  with  short,  fish-like  body 
and  square  head  like  that  of  a  dog;  with  wicked  mouth  that 
opened  and  shut  nervously ;  with  hooked  flippers  on  the  middle 
part,  and  a  bunch  of  tentacles  on  the  fore  that  spread  out 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  149 

ahead  and  around.  A  dozen  of  them  surrounded  him  menac- 
ingly; but  he  was  young  and  strong,  much  larger  than  they, 
and  a  little  frightened.  A  blow  of  his  tail  killed  two,  and 
the  rest  drew  off. 

The  current  bore  them  on  until  the  white  wall  rounded  off 
and  was  lost  to  sight  beyond  the  mass  of  darting  creatures. 
Here  was  slack  water,  and  with  desperate  effort  he  swam 
back,  pushing  the  small  enemies  out  of  his  path,  meeting 
some  resistance  and  receiving  a  few  bites,  until,  in  a  hollow 
in  the  wall,  he  found  temporary  refuge  and  time  to  think. 
But  he  could  not  solve  the  problem.  He  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea  where  he  was  or  what  had  happened — who  and  what 
were  the  strange  black  creatures,  or  why  they  had  threatened 
him. 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted.  Another  vibrant  roar 
sounded,  and  there  was  pitch-black  darkness;  then  he  was 
pushed  and  washed  away  from  his  shelter,  jostled,  bumped, 
and  squeezed,  until  he  found  himself  in  a  dimly  lighted  tun- 
nel, which,  crowded  as  it  was  with  swimmers,  was  narrow 
enough  to  enable  him  to  see  both  sides  at  once.  The  walls 
were  dark  brown  and  blue,  broken  up  everywhere  into  de- 
pressions or  caves,  some  of  them  so  deep  as  to  be  almost  like 
blind  tunnels.  The  dog-faced  creatures  were  there — as  far  as 
he  could  see ;  but  besides  them,  now,  were  others,  of  stranger 
shape — of  species  unknown  to  him. 

A  slow  current  carried  them  on,  and  soon  they  entered  a 
larger  tunnel.  He  swam  to  the  opposite  wall,  gripped  a  pro- 
jection, and  watched  in  wonder  and  awe  the  procession  glid- 
ing by.  He  soon  noticed  the  source  of  the  dim  light.  A  small 
creature  with  barrel-like  body  and  innumerable  legs  or  ten- 
tacles, wavering  and  reaching,  floated  past.  Its  body  swelled 
and  shrank  alternately,  with  every  swelling  giving  out  a 
phosphorescent  glow,  with  every  contraction  darkening  to  a 
faint  red  color.  Then  came  a  group  of  others;  then  a  second 
living  lamp ;  later  another  and  another :  they  were  evenly 
distributed,  and  illumined  the  tunnel. 

There  were  monstrous  shapes,  living  but  inert,  barely  puls- 
ing with  dormant  life,  as  much  larger  than  himself  as  the 


150  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

dog-headed  kind  were  smaller — huge,  unwieldy,  disk-shaped 
masses  of  tissue,  light  gray  at  the  margins,  dark  red  in  the 
middle.  They  were  in  the  majority,  and  blocked  the  view. 
Darting  and  wriggling  between  and  about  them  were  horrible 
forms,  some  larger  than  himself,  others  smaller.  There  were 
serpents,  who  swam  with  a  serpent's  motion.  Some  were 
serpents  in  form,  but  were  curled  rigidly  into  living  cork- 
screws, and  by  sculling  with  their  tails  screwed  their  way 
through  the  water  with  surprising  rapidity.  Others  were 
barrel-  or  globe-shaped,  with  swarming  tentacles.  With  these 
they  pulled  themselves  along,  in  and  out  through  the  crowd, 
or,  bringing  their  squirming  appendages  rearward, — each  an 
individual  snake, — used  them  as  propellers,  and  swam. 
There  were  creatures  in  the  form  of  long  cylinders,  some 
with  tentacles  by  which  they  rolled  along  like  a  log  in  a  tide- 
way; others,  without  appendages,  were  as  inert  and  helpless 
as  the  huge  red-and-gray  disks.  He  saw  four  ball-shaped 
creatures  float  by,  clinging  together;  then  a  group  of  eight, 
then  one  of  twelve.  All  these,  to  the  extent  of  their  volition, 
seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  extreme  agitation  and  excitement. 

The  cause  was  apparent.  The  tunnel  from  which  he  had 
come  was  still  discharging  the  dog-faced  animals  by  the  thou- 
sand, and  he  knew  now  the  business  they  were  on.  It  was 
war — war  to  the  death.  They  flung  themselves  with  furious 
energy  into  the  parade,  fighting  and  biting  all  they  could 
reach.  A  hundred  at  a  time  would  pounce  on  one  of  the 
large  red-and-gray  creatures,  almost  hiding  it  from  view,- 
then,  and  before  they  had  passed  out  of  sight,  they  would  fall 
off  and  disperse,  and  the  once  living  victim  would  come  with 
them,  in  parts.  The  smaller,  active  swimmers  fled,  but  if 
one  was  caught,  he  suffered ;  a  quick  dart,  a  tangle  of  tenta- 
cles, an  embrace  of  the  wicked  flippers,  a  bite — and  a  dead 
body  floated  on. 

And  now  into  the  battle  came  a  ponderous  engine  of  venge- 
ance and  defense.  A  gigantic,  lumbering,  pulsating  creature, 
white  and  translucent  but  for  the  dark,  active  brain  showing 
through  its  walls,  horrible  in  the  slow,  implacable  delibera- 
tion of  its  movements,  floated  down  with  the  current.     It  was 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  151 

larger  than  the  huge  red-and-gray  creatures.  It  was  form- 
less, in  the  full  irony  of  the  definition — for  it  assumed  all 
forms.  It  was  long — barrel-shaped;  it  shrank  to  a  sphere, 
then  broadened  laterally,  and  again  extended  above  and  be- 
low. In  turn  it  was  a  sphere,  a  disk,  a  pyramid,  a  pentahe- 
dron, a  polyhedron.  It  possessed  neither  legs,  flippers,  nor 
tentacles;  but  out  from  its  heaving,  shrinking  body  it  would 
send,  now  from  one  spot,  now  from  another,  an  active  arm, 
or  feeler,  with  which  it  swam,  pulled,  or  pushed.  An  un- 
lucky invader  which  one  of  them  touched  made  few  more  vol- 
untary movements;  for  instantly  the  whole  side  of  the  whit- 
ish mass  bristled  with  arms.  They  seized,  crushed,  killed  it, 
and  then  pushed  it  bodily  through  the  living  walls  to  the 
animal's  interior  to  serve  for  food.  And  the  gaping  fissure 
healed  at  once,  like  the  wounds  of  Milton's  warring  angels. 

The  first  white  monster  floated  down,  killing  as  he  went; 
then  came  another,  pushing  eagerly  into  the  fray;  then  came 
two,  then  three,  then  dozens.  It  seemed  that  the  word  had 
been  passed,  and  the  army  of  defense  was  mustering. 

Sick  with  horror,  he  watched  the  grim  spectacle  from  the 
shelter  of  the  projection,  until  roused  to  an  active  sense  of 
danger  to  himself — but  not  from  the  fighters.  He  was 
anchored  by  his  tail,  swinging  easily  in  the  eddy,  and  now 
felt  himself  touclTed  from  beneath,  again  from  above.  A  pro- 
jection down-stream  was  extending  outward  and  toward  him. 
The  cave  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge  was  closing  on  him 
like  a  great  mouth — as  though  directed  by  an  intelligence 
behind  the  wall.  With  a  terrified  flirt  of  his  tail  he  flung 
himself  out,  and  as  he  drifted  down  with  the  combat  the 
walls  of  the  cave  crunched  together.  It  was  well  for  him 
that  he  was  not  there. 

The  current  was  clogged  with  fragments  of  once  living  crea- 
tures, and  everywhere,  darting,  dodging,  and  biting,  were  the 
fierce  black  invaders.  But  they  paid  no  present  attention 
to  him  or  to  the  small  tentacled  animals.  They  killed  the 
large,  helpless  red-and-gray  kind,  and  were  killed  by  the 
larger  white  monsters,  each  moment  marking  the  death  and 
rending  to  fragments  of  a  victim,  and  the  horrid  interment 


152  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

of  fully  half  his  slayers.  The  tunnel  grew  larger,  as  month 
after  mouth  of  tributary  tunnels  was  passed ;  but  as  each 
one  discharged  its  quota  of  swimming  and  drifting  creatures, 
there  was  no  thinning  of  the  crowd. 

As  he  drifted  on  with  the  inharmonious  throng,  he  noticed 
what  seemed  the  objective  of  the  war.  This  was  the  caves 
which  lined  the  tunnel.  Some  were  apparently  rigid,  others 
were  mobile.  A  large  red-and-gray  animal  was  pushed  into 
the  mouth  of  one  of  the  latter,  and  the  walls  instantly  closed ; 
then  they  opened,  and  the  creature  drifted  out,  limp  and 
colorless,  but  alive ;  and  with  him  came  fragments  of  the  wall, 
broken  off  by  the  pressure.  This  happened  again  and  again, 
but  the  large  creature  was  never  quite  killed — merely 
squeezed.  The  tentacled  non-combatants  and  the  large  white 
lighters  seemed  to  know  the  danger  of  these  tunnel  mouths, 
possibly  from  bitter  experiences,  for  they  avoided  the  walls; 
but  the  dog-faced  invaders  sought  this  death,  and  only  fought 
on  their  way  to  the  caves.  Sometimes  two,  often  four  or 
more,  would  launch  themselves  together  into  a  hollow,  but  to 
no  avail;  their  united  strength  could  not  prevent  the  closing 
in  of  the  mechanical  maw,  and  they  were  crushed  and  flung 
out,  to  drift  on  with  other  debris. 

Soon  the  walls  could  not  be  seen  for  the  pushing,  jostling 
crowd,  but  everywhere  the  terrible,  silent  war  went  on  until 
there  came  a  time  when  fighting  ceased;  for  each  must  look 
out  for  himself.  They  seemed  to  be  in  an  immense  cave,  and 
the  tide  was  broken  into  cross-currents  rushing  violently  to 
the  accompaniment  of  rhythmical  thunder.  They  were 
shaken,  jostled,  pushed  about  and  pushed  together,  hundreds 
of  the  smaller  creatures  dying  from  the  pressure.  Then 
there  was  a  moment  of  comparative  quiet,  during  which  fight- 
ing was  resumed,  and  there  could  be  seen  the  swiftly  flying 
walls  of  a  large  tunnel.  Next  they  were  rushed  through  a 
labyrinth  of  small  caves  with  walls  of  curious,  branching 
formation,  sponge-like  and  intricate.  It  required  energetic 
effort  to  prevent  being  caught  in  the  meshes,  and  the  large 
red-and-gray  creatures  were  sadly  torn  and  crushed,  while 
the  white  ones  fought  their  way  through  by  main  strength. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  153 

Again  the  flying  walls  of  a  tunnel,  again  a  mighty  cave,  and 
the  cross-currents,  and  the  rhythmical  thunder,  and  now  a 
wild  charge  down  an  immense  tunnel,  the  wall  of  which  surged 
outward  and  inward,  in  unison  with  the  roaring  of  the  thun- 
der. 

The  thunder  died  away  in  the  distance,  though  the  walls 
still  surged — even  those  of  a  smaller  tunnel  which  divided 
the  current  and  received  them.  Down-stream  the  tunnel 
branched  again  and  again,  and  with  the  lessening  of  the 
diameter  was  a  lessening  of  the  current's  velocity,  until,  in 
a  maze  of  small,  short  passages,  the  invaders,  content  to  fight 
and  kill  in  the  swifter  tide,  again  attacked  the  caves. 

But  to  the  never-changing  result:  they  were  crushed, 
mangled,  and  cast  out,  the  number  of  suicides,  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, largely  exceeding  those  killed  by  the  white  warriors. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  large  mortality  among  them,  the 
attacking  force  was  increasing.  Where  one  died  two  took  his 
place;  and  the  reason  was  soon  made  plain — they  were  re- 
producing. A  black  fighter,  longer  than  his  fellows,  a  little 
sluggish  of  movement,  as  though  from  the  restrictive  pressure 
of  a  large,  round  protuberance  in  his  middle,  which  made 
him  resemble  a  snake  which  had  swallowed  an  egg,  was  caught 
by  a  white  monster  and  instantly  embraced  by  a  multitude  of 
feelers.  He  struggled,  bit,  and  broke  in  two;  then  the  two 
parts  escaped  the  grip  of  the  astonished  captor,  and  wriggled 
away,  the  protuberance  becoming  the  head  of  the  rear  por- 
tion, which  immediately  joined  the  fight,  snapping  and  biting 
with  unmistakable  jaws.     This  phenomenon  was  repeated. 

And  on  went  the  battle.  Illumined  by  the  living  lamps, 
and  watched  by  terrified  noncombatants,  the  horrid  carnival 
continued  with  never-slacking  fury  and  ever-changing  back- 
ground— past  the  mouths  of  tributary  tunnels  which  increased 
the  volume  and  velocity  of  the  current  and  added  to  the 
fighting  strength,  on  through  widening  archways  to  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  cross-currents,  the  thunder,  and  the  sponge-like 
maze,  down  past  the  heaving  walls  of  larger  tunnels  to 
branched  passages,  where,  in  comparative  slack  water,  the 
siege  of  the  caves  was  resumed.    For  hour  after  hour  this 


154  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

went  on,  the  invaders  dying  by  hundreds,  but  increasing  by 
thousands  and  ten  thousands,  as  the  geometrical  progression 
advanced,  until,  with  swimming-spaces  nearly  choked  by  their 
bodies,  living  and  dead,  there  came  the  inevitable  turn  in  the 
tide  of  battle.     A  white  monster  was  killed. 

Glutted  with  victims,  exhausted  and  sluggish,  he  was 
pounced  upon  by  hundreds,  hidden  from  view  by  a  living 
envelop  of  black,  which  pulsed  and  .throbbed  with  his  death- 
throes.  A  feeler  reached  out,  to  be  bitten  off;  then  another, 
to  no  avail.  His  strength  was  gone,  and  the  assailants  bit 
and  burrowed  until  they  reached  a  vital  part,  when  the  great 
mass  assumed  a  spherical  form  and  throbbed  no  more.  They 
dropped  off,  and,  as  the  mangled  ball  floated  on,  charged  on 
the  next  enemy  with  renewed  fury  and  courage  born  of  their 
victory.     This  one  died  as  quickly. 

And  as  though  it  had  been  foreseen,  and  a  policy  arranged 
to  meet  it,  the  white  army  no  longer  fought  in  the  open,  but 
lined  up  along  the  walls  to  defend  the  immovable  caves. 
They  avoided  the  working  jaws  of  the  other  kind,  which  cer- 
tainly needed  no  garrison,  and  drifting  slowly  in  the  eddies, 
fought  as  they  could,  with  decreasing  strength  and  increasing 
death-rate.  And  thus  it  happened  that  our  conservative  non- 
combatant,  out  in  midstream,  found  himself  surrounded  by  a 
horde  of  black  enemies  who  had  nothing  better  to  do  than 
attack  him. 

And  they  did.  As  many  as  could  crowd  about  him  closed 
their  wicked  jaws  in  his  flesh.  Squirming  with  pain,  ren- 
dered trebly  strong  by  his  terror,  he  killed  them  by  twos 
and  threes  as  he  could  reach  them  with  his  tail.  He  shook 
them  off  with  nervous  contortions,  only  to  make  room  for 
more.  He  plunged,  rolled,  launched  himself  forward  and 
back,  up  and  down,  out  and  in,  bending  himself  nearly  double, 
then  with  lightning  rapidity  throwing  himself  far  into  the 
reverse  curve.  He  was  flghting  for  his  life,  and  knew  it. 
When  he  could,  he  used  his  jaws,  only  once  to  an  enemy.  He 
saw  dimly  at  intervals  that  the  white  monsters  were  watching 
him;  but  none  offered  to  help,  and  he  had  not  time  to  call. 

He  thought  that  he  must  have  become  the  object  of  the 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  155 

war;  for  from  all  sides  they  swarmed,  crowding  about  him, 
seeking  a  place  on  which  to  fasten  their  jaws.  Little  by  little 
the  large  red-and-gray  creatures,  the  noncombatants,  and  the 
phosphorescent  animals  were  pushed  aside,  and  he,  the  center 
of  an  almost  solid  black  mass,  fought,  in  utter  darkness,  with 
the  fury  of  extreme  fright.  He  had  no  appreciation  of  the 
passing  of  time,  no  knowledge  of  his  distance  from  the  wall,  or 
the  destination  of  this  never-pausing  current.  But  finally, 
after  an  apparently  interminable  period,  he  heard  dimly,  with 
failing  consciousness,  the  reverberations  of  the  thunder,  and 
knew  momentary  respite  as  the  violent  cross-currents  tore  his 
assailants  away.  Then,  still  in  darkness,  he  felt  the  crashing 
and  tearing  of  flesh  against  obstructing  walls  and  sharp 
corners,  the  repetition  of  thunder  and  the  roar  of  the  cur- 
rent which  told  him  he  was  once  more  in  a  large  tunnel.  An 
instant  of  light  from  a  venturesome  torch  showed  him  to  his 
enemies,  and  again  he  fought,  like  a  whale  in  his  last  flurry, 
slowly  dying  from  exhaustion  and  pain,  but  still  potential 
to  kill — terrible  in  his  agony.  There  was  no  counting  of 
scalps  in  that  day's  work;  but  perhaps  no  devouring  white 
monster  in  all  the  defensive  army  could  have  shown  a  death- 
list  equal  to  this.  From  the  surging  black  cloud  there  was  a 
steady  outflow  of  the  dead,  pushed  back  by  the  living. 

Weaker  and  weaker,  while  they  mangled  his  flesh,  and 
still  in  darkness,  he  fought  them  down  through  branching 
passages  to  another  network  of  small  tunnels,  where  he  caught 
a  momentary  view  of  the  walls  and  the  stolid  white  guard, 
thence  on  to  what  he  knew  was  open  space.  And  here  he 
felt  that  he  could  fight  no  more.  They  had  covered  him 
completely,  and,  try  as  he  might  with  his  failing  strength, 
he  could  not  dislodge  them.  So  he  ceased  his  struggles;  and 
numb  with  pain,  dazed  with  despair,  he  awaited  the  end. 

But  it  did  not  come.  He  was  too  exhausted  to  feel  sur- 
prise or  joy  when  they  suddenly  dropped  away  from  him; 
but  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  was  still  in  force,  and  he 
swam  toward  the  wall.  The  small  creatures  paid  him  no  at- 
tention; they  scurried  this  way  and  that,  busy  with  troubles 
of  their  own,  while  he  crept  stupidly  and  painfully  between 


156         THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

two  white  sentries  floating  in  the  eddies, — one  of  whom  con- 
siderately made  room  for  him, — and  anchored  to  a  projec- 
tion, luckily  choosing  a  harbor  that  was  not  hostile. 

"Any  port  in  a  storm,  eh,  neighbor?"  said  the  one  who  had 
given  him  room,  and  who  seemed  to  notice  his  dazed  condi- 
tion. ^'You  '11  feel  better  soon.  My,  but  you  put  up  a  good 
fight,  that  's  what  you  did ! " 

He  could  not  answer,  and  the  friendly  guard  resumed  his 
vigil.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  he  could  take  cognizance 
of  what  was  going  on  in  the  stream.  There  was  a  new  army 
in  the  fight,  and  reinforcements  were  still  coming.  A  short 
distance  above  him  was  a  huge  rent  in  the  wall,  and  the  caves 
around  it,  crushed  and  distorted,  were  grinding  fiercely. 
Protruding  through  the  rent  and  extending  half-way  across 
the  tunnel  was  a  huge  mass  of  some  strange  substance,  roughly 
shaped  to  a  cylindrical  form.  It  was  hollow,  and  out  of  it, 
by  thousands  and  hundred  thousands,  was  pouring  the  auxili- 
ary army,  from  which  the  black  fighters  were  now  fleeing  for 
dear  life. 

The  newcomers,  though  resembling  in  general  form  the 
creatures  they  pursued,  were  much  larger  and  of  two  dis- 
tinct types.  Both  were  light  brown  in  color;  but  while  one 
showed  huge  development  of  head  and  jaw,  with  small  flip- 
pers, the  other  kind  reversed  these  attributes,  their  heads 
being  small,  but  their  flippers  long  and  powerful.  They 
ran  their  quarry  down  in  the  open,  and  seized  them  with  out- 
reaching  tentacles.  No  mistakes  were  made — no  feints  or 
false  motions;  and  there  was  no  resistance  by  the  victims. 
Where  one  was  noticed  he  was  doomed.  The  tentacles  gath- 
ered him  in — to  a  murderous  bite  or  a  murderous  embrace. 

At  last,  when  the  inflow  had  ceased, — when  there  must  have 
been  millions  of  the  brown  killers  in  the  tunnel, — the  great 
hollow  cylinder  turned  slowly  on  its  axis  and  backed  out 
through  the  rent  in  the  wall,  which  immediately  closed,  with 
a  crushing  and  scattering  of  fragments.  Though  the  allies 
were  far  down-stream  now,  the  war  was  practically  ended; 
for  the  white  defenders  remained  near  the  walls,  and  the 
black  invaders  were  in  wildest  panic,  each  one,  as  the  resist- 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  157 

less  current  rushed  him  past,  swimming  against  the  stream, 
to  put  distance  between  himself  and  the  destroyer  below. 
But  before  long  an  advance-guard  of  the  brown  enemy  shot 
out  from  the  tributaries  above,  and  the  tide  of  retreat  swung 
backward.  Then  came  thousands  of  them,  and  the  massacre 
was  resumed. 

**Hot  stuff,  eh?"  said  his  friendly  neighbor  to  him. 

"Y-y-y-es — I  guess  so,"  he  answered,  rather  vacantly;  *'I 
don't  know.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  never  saw 
such  doings.     What  is  it  all  for  ?     What  does  it  mean  ? ' ' 

''Oh,  this  is  nothing;  it  's  all  in  a  lifetime.  Still,  I  admit 
it  might  ha'  been  serious  for  us — and  you,  too — if  we  hadn't 
got  help." 

''But  who  are  they,  and  what?  They  all  seem  of  a  family, 
and  are  killing  each  other." 

"Immortal  shade  of  Darwin!"  exclaimed  the  other  sentry^ 
who  had  not  spoken  before.  "Where  were  you  brought  up? 
Don't  you  know  that  variations  from  type  are  the  deadliest 
enemies  of  the  parent  stock  ?  These  two  brown  breeds  are  the 
hundredth  or  two-hundredth  cousins  of  the  black  kind.  When 
they  've  killed  off  their  common  relative,  and  get  to  compet- 
ing for  grub,  they  '11  exterminate  each  other,  and  we  '11  be  rid 
of  'em  all.     Law  of  nature.     Understand?" 

"Oh,  y-yes,  I  understand,  of  course;  but  what  did  the 
black  kind  attack  me  for?  And  what  do  they  want,  any- 
way?" 

"To  follow  out  their  destiny,  I  s'pose.  They  're  the  kind 
of  folks  who  have  missions.  Reformers,  we  call  'em — who 
want  to  enforce  their  peculiar  ideas  and  habits  on  other  peo- 
ple. Sometimes  we  call  them  expansionists — fond  of  colon- 
izing territory  that  doesn't  belong  to  them.  They  wanted  to 
get  through  the  cells  to  the  lymph-passages,  thence  on  to  the 
brain  and  spinal  marrow.  Know  what  that  means?  Hydro- 
phobia. ' ' 

"What  's  that?" 

"Oh,  say,  now!    You  're  too  easy." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  other,  good-naturedly;  "don't  guy 
him.     He  never  had  our  advantages.     You  see,  neighbor,  we 


158  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

get  these  points  from  the  subjective  brain,  which  knows  all 
things  and  gives  us  our  instructions.  We  're  the  white  cor- 
puscles,— phagocytes,  the  scientists  call  us, — and  our  work  is 
to  police  the  blood-vessels,  and  kill  off  invaders  that  make 
trouble.  Those  red-and-gray  chumps  can't  take  care  of  them- 
selves, and  we  must  protect  'em.  Understand  ?  But  this  in- 
vasion was  too  much  for  us,  and  we  had  to  have  help  from 
outside.  You  must  have  come  in  with  the  first  crowd — think 
I  saw  you — in  at  the  bite.  Second  crowd  came  in  through  an 
inoculation  tube,  and  just  in  time  to  pull  you  through." 

*'I  don't  know,"  answered  our  bewildered  friend.  ^'In  at 
the  bite?  What  bite?  I  was  swimming  round  comfortable- 
like, and  there  was  a  big  noise,  and  then  I  was  alongside  of  a 
big  white  wall,  and  then — " 

"Exactly;  the  dog's  tooth.  You  got  into  bad  company, 
friend,  and  you  're  well  out  of  it.  That  first  gang  is  the 
microbe  of  rabies,  not  very  well  known  yet,  because  a  little 
too  small  to  be  seen  by  most  microscopes.  All  the  scientists 
seem  to  have  learned  about  'em  is  that  a  colony  a  few  hun- 
dred generations  old — which  they  call  a  culture,  or  serum — 
is  death  on  the  original  bird;  and  that  's  what  they  sent  in 
to  help  out.  Pasteur  's  dead,  worse  luck,  but  sometime  old 
Koch  '11  find  out  what  we  've  known  all  along — that  it  's 
only  variation  from  type." 

"Koch!"  he  answered  eagerly  and  proudly.  "Oh,  I  know 
Koch;  I  've  met  him.  And  I  know  about  miscroscopes,  too. 
Why,  Koch  had  me  under  his  microscope  once.  He  dis- 
covered my  family,  and  named  us — the  comma  bacilli — the 
Spirilli  of  Asiatic  Cholera." 

In  silent  horror  they  drew  away  from  him,  and  then  con- 
versed together.  Other  white  warriors  drifting  along  stopped 
and  joined  the  conference,  and  when  a  hundred  or  more  were 
massed  before  him,  they  spread  out  to  a  semi-spherical  forma« 
tion  and  closed  in. 

"What  's  the  matter?"  he  asked  nervously.  "What  's 
wrong?  What  are  you  going  to  do?  I  haven't  done  any- 
thing, have  I?" 

"It  's  not  what  you  Ve  done,  stranger,"  said  his  quondam 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  159 

friend,  ''or  what  we  're  going  to  do.  It  's  what  you  're  going 
to  do.  You  're  going  to  die.  Don't  see  how  you  got  past 
quarantine,  anyhow?" 

"What — why — I  don't  want  to  die.  I  've  done  nothing. 
All  I  want  is  peace  and  quiet,  and  a  place  to  swim  where  it 
is  n  't  too  light  nor  too  dark.  I  mind  my  own  affairs.  Let  me 
alone — you  hear  me — let  me  alone!" 

They  answered  him  not.  Slowly  and  irresistibly  the  hollow 
formation  contracted — individuals  slipping  out  when  neces- 
sary— until  he  was  pushed,  still  protesting,  into  the  nearest 
movable  cave.  The  walls  crashed  together  and  his  life  went 
out.     When  he  was  cast  forth  he  was  in  five  pieces. 

And  so  our  gentle,  conservative,  non-combative  cholera 
microbe,  who  only  wanted  to  be  left  alone  to  mind  his  own 
affairs,  met  this  violent  death,  a  martyr  to  prejudice  and  an 
unsympathetic  environment. 


Extract  from  hospital  record  of  the  case  of  John  Anderson : 

Aiig-ust  18.  As  period  of  incubation  for  both  cholera  and  hydro- 
phobia has  passed  and  no  initial  symptoms  of  either  disease  have 
been  noticed,  patient  is  this  day  discharged,  cured. 


A  DILEMMA 

By  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL 

I  WAS  just  thirty-seven  when  my  Uncle  Philip  died.  A 
week  before  that  event  he  sent  for  me;  and  here  let  me  say 
that  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  him.  He  hated  my  mother,  but 
I  do  not  know  why.  She  told  me  long  before  his  last  illness 
that  I  need  expect  nothing  from  my  father's  brother.  He  was 
an  inventor,  an  able  and  ingenious  mechanical  engineer,  and 
had  made  much  money  by  his  improvement  in  turbine-wheels. 
He  was  a  bachelor;  lived  alone,  cooked  his  own  meals,  and 
collected  precious  stones,  especially  rubies  and  pearls.  From 
the  time  he  made  his  first  money  he  had  this  mania.  As  he 
grew  richer,  the  desire  to  possess  rare  and  costly  gems  be- 
came stronger.  When  he  bought  a  new  stone,  he  carried  it  in 
his  pocket  for  a  month  and  now  and  then  took  it  out  and 
looked  at  it.  Then  it  was  added  to  the  collection  in  his  safe 
at  the  trust  company. 

At  the  time  he  sent  for  me  I  was  a  clerk,  and  poor  enough. 
Remembering  my  mother's  words,  his  message  gave  me,  his 
sole  relative,  no  new  hopes;  but  I  thought  it  best  to  go. 

When  I  sat  down  by  his  bedside,  he  began,  with  a  mali- 
cious grin: 

''I  suppose  you  think  me  queer.     I  will  explain.''    What 

he  said  was  certainly  queer  enough.     ''I  have  been  living  on 

an  annuity  into  which  I  put  my  fortune.     In  other  words,  I 

have  been,  as  to  money,  concentric  half  of  my  life  to  enable 

me  to  be  as  eccentric  as  I  pleased  the  rest  of  it.     Now  1 

repent  of  my  wickedness  to  you  all,  and  desire  to  live  in  the 

memory  of  at  least  one  of  my  family.     You  think  I  am  poor 

and  have  only  my  annuity.     You  will  be  profitably  surprised. 

I  have  never  parted  with  my  precious  stones;  they  will  be 

160 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELX.  161 

yours.     You  are  my  sole  heir.     I  shall  carry  with  me  to  the 
other  world  the  satisfaction  of  making  one  man  happy. 

''No  doubt  you  have  always  had  expectations,  and  I  desire 
that  you  should  continue  to  expect.  My  jewels  are  in  my 
safe.     There  is  nothing  else  left." 

When  I  thanked  him  he  grinned  all  over  his  lean  face, 
and  said: 

"You  will  have  to  pay  for  my  funeral." 

I  must  say  that  I  never  looked  forw^ard  to  any  expenditure 
with  more  pleasure  than  to  what  it  would  cost  me  to  put 
him  away  in  the  earth.     As  I  rose  to  go,  he  said : 

"The  rubies  are  valuable.  They  are  in  my  safe  at  the 
trust  company.  Before  you  unlock  the  box,  be  very  careful 
to  read  a  letter  which  lies  on  top  of  it;  and  be  sure  not  to 
shake  the  box."  I  thought  this  odd.  "Don't  come  back. 
It  won't  hasten  things." 

He  died  that  day  week,  and  was  handsomely  buried.  The 
day  after,  his  will  was  found,  leaving  me  his  heir.  I  opened 
his  safe  and  found  in  it  nothing  but  an  iron  box,  evidently 
of  his  own  making,  for  he  was  a  skilled  workman  and  very 
ingenious.  The  box  was  heavy  and  strong,  about  ten  inches 
long,  eight  inches  wide  and  ten  inches  high.  On  it  lay  a 
letter  to  me.     It  ran  thus: 

' '  Dear  Tom  :  This  box  contains  a  large  number  of  very 
fine  pigeon-blood  rubies  and  a  fair  lot  of  diamonds;  one  is 
blue — a  beauty.  There  are  hundreds  of  pearls — one  the  fa- 
mous green  pearl  and  a  necklace  of  blue  pearls,  for  which  any 
woman  would  sell  her  soul — or  her  affections."  I  thought  of 
Susan.  "I  wish  you  to  continue  to  have  expectations  and 
continuously  to  remember  your  dear  uncle.  I  would  have 
left  these  stones  to  some  charity,  but  I  hate  the  poor  as  much 
as  I  hate  your  mother's  son, — yes,  rather  more. 

"The  box  contains  an  interesting  mechanism,  which  will 
act  with  certainty  as  you  unlock  it,  and  explode  ten  ounces 
of  my  improved,  supersensitive  dynamite — no,  to  be  accurate, 
there  are  only  nine  and  a  half  ounces.  Doubt  me,  and  open 
it,  and  you  will  be  blown  to  atoms.     Believe  me,  and  you 


162  A  DILEMMA 

will  continue  to  nourish  expectations  which  will  never  be 
fulfilled.  As  a  considerate  man,  I  counsel  extreme  care  in 
handling  the  box.     Don't  forget  your  affectionate 

"Uncle.'' 

I  stood  appalled,  the  key  in  my  hand.  Was  it  true  ?  Was 
it  a  lie?  I  had  spent  all  my  savings  on  the  funeral,  and  was 
poorer  than  ever. 

Kemembering  the  old  man's  oddity,  his  malice,  his  clever- 
ness in  mechanic  arts,  and  the  patent  explosive  which  had 
helped  to  make  him  rich,  I  began  to  feel  how  very  likely  it 
was  that  he  had  told  the  truth  in  this  cruel  letter. 

I  carried  the  iron  box  away  to  my  lodgings,  set  it  down 
with  care  in  a  closet,  laid  the  key  on  it,  and  locked  the 
closet. 

Then  I  sat  down,  as  yet  hopeful,  and  began  to  exert  my 
ingenuity  upon  ways  of  opening  the  box  without  being  killed. 
There  must  be  a  way. 

After  a  week  of  vain  thinking  I  bethought  me,  one  day, 
that  it  would  be  easy  to  explode  the  box  by  unlocking  it  at  a 
safe  distance,  and  I  arranged  a  plan  with  wires,  which  seemed 
as  if  it  would  answer.  But  when  I  reflected  on  what  would 
happen  when  the  dynamite  scattered  the  rubies,  I  knew 
that  I  should  be  none  the  richer.  For  hours  at  a  time  I  sat 
looking  at  that  box  and  handling  the  key. 

At  last  I  hung  the  key  on  my  watch-guard;  but  then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  it  might  be  lost  or  stolen.  Dreading  this, 
1  hid  it,  fearful  that  some  one  might  use  it  to  open  the  box. 
This  state  of  doubt  and  fear  lasted  for  weeks,  until  I  became 
nervous  and  began  to  dread  that  some  accident  might  happen 
to  that  box.  A  burglar  might  come  and  boldly  carry  it  away 
and  force  it  open  and  find  it  was  a  wicked  fraud  of  my  uncle's. 
Even  the  rumble  and  vibration  caused  by  the  heavy  vans  in 
the  street  became  at  last  a  terror. 

Worst  of  all,  my  salary  was  reduced,  and  I  saw  that  mar- 
riage was  out  of  the  question. 

In  my  despair  I  consulted  Professor  Clinch  about  my 
dilemma,  and  as  to  some  safe  way  of  getting  at  the  rubies. 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL  163 

He  said  that,  if  my  uncle  had  not  lied,  there  was  none  that 
would  not  ruin  the  stones,  especially  the  pearls,  but  that  it 
was  a  silly  tale  and  altogether  incredible.  I  offered  him  the 
biggest  ruby  if  he  wished  to  test  his  opinion.  He  did  not 
desire  to  do  so. 

Dr.  Schaff ,  my  uncle 's  doctor,  believed  the  old  man 's  letter, 
and  added  a  caution,  which  was  entirely  useless,  for  by  this 
time  I  was  afraid  to  be  in  the  room  with  that  terrible  box. 

At  last  the  doctor  kindly  warned  me  that  I  was  in  danger 
of  losing  my  mind  with  too  much  thought  about  my  rubies. 
In  fact,  I  did  nothing  else  but  contrive  wild  plans  to  get  at 
them  safely.  I  spent  all  my  spare  hours  at  one  of  the  great 
libraries  reading  about  dynamite.  Indeed,  I  talked  of  it  un- 
til the  library  attendants,  believing  me  a  lunatic  or  a  dyna- 
mite fiend,  declined  to  humor  me,  and  spoke  to  the  police. 
I  suspect  that  for  a  while  I  was  "shadowed"  as  a  suspicious, 
and  possibly  criminal,  character.  I  gave  up  the  libraries, 
and,  becoming  more  and  more  fearful,  set  my  precious  box  , 
on  a  down  pillow,  for  fear  of  its  being  shaken;  for  at  this  | 
time  even  the  absurd  possibility  of  its  being  disturbed  by  an  , 
earthquake  troubled  me.  I  tried  to  calculate  the  amount  ' 
of  shake  needful  to  explode  my  box.  j 

The  old  doctor,  when  I  saw  him  again,  begged  me  to  give        ! 
up  all  thought  of  the  matter,  and,  as  I  felt  how  completely        j 
I  was  the  slave  of  one  despotic  idea,  I  tried  to  take  the  good 
advice  thus  given  me. 

j 

Unhappily,  I  found,  soon  after,  between  the  leaves  of  my 
uncle's  Bible,  a  numbered  list  of  the  stones  with  their  cost 

and  much  beside.     It  was  dated  two  years  before  my  uncle's  | 

death.     Many   of   the   stones   were   well   known,    and   their  \ 

enormous  value  amazed  me.  i 

Several  of  the  rubies  were  described  with  care,  and  curious  ! 

histories  of  them  were  given  in  detail.     One  was  said  to  be  i 

the  famous  ''Sunset  ruby,"  which  had  belonged  to  the  Em-  I 

press-Queen    Maria   Theresa.     One    was    called   the    "Blood  j 

ruby,"  not,  as  was  explained,  because  of  the  color,  but  on  ac-  i 

count  of  the  murders  it  had  occasioned.     Now,  as  I  read,  it  j 

seemed  again  to  threaten  death.  ' 


164  A  DILEMMA 

The  pearls  were  described  with  care  as  an  unequalled  col- 
lection. Concerning  two  of  them  my  uncle  had  written  what 
I  might  call  biographies, — for,  indeed,  they  seemed  to  have 
done  much  evil  and  some  good.  One,  a  black  pearl,  was  men- 
tioned in  an  old  bill  of  sale  as — She — which  seemed  queer 
to  me. 

It  was  maddening.  Here,  guarded  by  a  vision  of  sudden 
death,  was  wealth  *' beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice."  I  am 
not  a  clever  or  ingenious  man;  I  know  little  beyond  how  to 
keep  a  ledger,  and  so  I  was,  and  am,  no  doubt,  absurd  about 
many  of  my  notions  as  to  how  to  solve  this  riddle. 

At  one  time  I  thought  of  finding  a  man  who  would  take 
the  risk  of  unlocking  the  box,  but  what  right  had  I  to  subject 
any  one  else  to  the  trial  I  dared  not  face?  I  could  easily 
drop  the  box  from  a  height  somewhere,  and  if  it  did  not  ex- 
plode could  then  safely  unlock  it ;  but  if  it  did  blow  up  when 
it  fell,  good-by  to  my  rubies.  Mine,  indeed !  I  was  rich,  and 
I  was  not.  I  grew  thin  and  morbid,  and  so  miserable  that, 
being  a  good  Catholic,  I  at  last  carried  my  troubles  to  my 
father  confessor.  He  thought  it  simply  a  cruel  jest  of  my 
uncle's,  but  was  not  so  eager  for  another  world  as  to  be  will- 
ing to  open  my  box.  He,  too,  counselled  me  to  cease  thinking 
about  it.  Good  heavens!  I  dreamed  about  it.  Not  to  think 
about  it  was  impossible.  Neither  my  own  thought  nor  science 
nor  religion  had  been  able  to  assist  me. 

Two  years  have  gone  by,  and  I  am  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  the  city,  and  have  no  more  money  than  will  keep  me  alive. 

Susan  said  I  was  half  cracked  like  Uncle  Philip,  and  broke 
off  her  engagement.  In  my  despair  I  have  advertised  in  the 
"Journal  of  Science,"  and  have  had  absurd  schemes  sent  me 
by  the  dozen.  At  last,  as  I  talked  too  much  about  it,  the 
thing  became  so  well  known  that  when  I  put  the  horror  in 
a  safe,  in  bank,  I  was  promptly  desired  to  withdraw  it.  I 
was  in  constant  fear  of  burglars,  and  my  landlady  gave  me 
notice  to  leave,  because  no  one  would  stay  in  the  house  with 
that  box.  I  am  now  advised  to  print  my  story  and  await 
advice  from  the  ingenuity  of  the  American  mind. 

I  have  moved  into  the  suburbs  and  hidden  the  box  and 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL  165 

changed  my  name  and  my  occupation.  This  I  did  to  escape 
the  curiosity  of  the  reporters.  I  ought  to  say  that  when  the 
government  officials  came  to  hear  of  my  inheritance,  they  very 
reasonably  desired  to  collect  the  succession  tax  on  my  uncle's 

estate. 

I  was  delighted  to  assist  them.  I  told  the  collector  my  story, 
and  showed  him  Uncle  Philip's  letter.  Then  I  offered  him 
the  key,  and  asked  for  time  to  get  half  a  mile  away.  That 
man  said  he  would  think  it  over  and  come  back  later. 

This  is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  have  made  a  will  and  left  my 
rubies  and  pearls  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Human 
Vivisection.  If  any  man  thinks  this  account  a  joke  or  an 
invention,  let  him  coldly  imagine  the  situation: 

Given  an  iron  box,  known  to  contain  wealth,  said  to  con- 
tain dynamite,  arranged  to  explode  when  the  key  is  used  to 
unlock  it — what  would  any  sane  man  do?  What  would  he 
advise  ? 


THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE  ^ 

By  A.  CONAN  DOYLE 

I  HAD  called  upon  my  friend,  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  one  day 
in  the  autumn  of  last  year,  and  found  him  in  deep  conversa- 
tion with  a  very  stout,  florid-faced,  elderly  gentleman,  vnth 
fiery  red  hair.  With  an  apology  for  my  intrusion,  I  was 
about  to  withdraw  when  Holmes  pulled  me  abruptly  into  the 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  me. 

"You  could  not  possibly  have  come  at  a  better  time,  my 
dear  Watson,"  he  said,  cordially. 

* '  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  engaged. ' ' 

"So  I  am.     Very  much  so." 

"Then  I  can  wait  in  the  next  room." 

"Not  at  all.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Wilson,  has  been  my 
partner  and  helper  in  many  of  my  most  successful  cases,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  he  will  be  of  the  utmost  use  to  me  in 
yours  also." 

The  stout  gentleman  half  rose  from  his  chair  and  gave  a 
bob  of  greeting,  with  a  quick,  little,  questioning  glance  from 
his  small,  fat-encircled  eyes. 

"Try  the  settee,"  said  Holmes,  relapsing  into  his  arm-chair 
and  putting  his  finger-tips  together,  as  w^as  his  custom  when 
in  judicial  moods.  "I  know,  my  dear  Watson,  that  you  share 
my  love  of  all  that  is  bizarre  and  outside  the  conventions  and 
humdrum  routine  of  every-day  life.  You  have  shown  your 
relish  for  it  by  the  enthusiasm  which  has  prompted  you  to 
chronicle,  and,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  somewhat  to 
embellish  so  many  of  my  own  little  adventures." 

"Your  cases  have  indeed  been  of  the  greatest  interest  to 
me,"  I  observed. 

"You  will  remember  that  I  remarked  the  other  day,  just 

1  By  permission  of  Harper  &  Brothers. 

166 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  167 

before  we  went  into  the  very  simple  problem  presented  by 
Miss  Mary  Sutherland,  that  for  strange  effects  and  extraor- 
dinary combinations  we  must  go  to  life  itself,  which  is  always 
far  more  daring  than  any  effort  of  the  imagination." 

' '  A  proposition  which  I  took  the  liberty  of  doubting. '  * 

"You  did,  doctor,  but  none  the  less  you  must  come  round 
to  my  view,  for  otherwise  I  shall  keep  on  piling  fact  upon  fact 
on  you,  until  your  reason  breaks  down  under  them  and  ac- 
knowledges me  to  be  right.  Now,  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson  here  has 
been  good  enough  to  call  upon  me  this  morning,  and  to  begin 
a  narrative  which  promises  to  be  one  of  the  most  singular 
which  I  have  listened  to  for  some  time.  You  have  heard  me 
remark  that  the  strangest  and  most  unique  things  are  very 
often  connected  not  with  the  larger  but  with  the  smaller 
crimes,  and  occasionally,  indeed,  where  there  is  room  for 
doubt  whether  any  positive  crime  has  been  committed.  As 
far  as  I  have  heard  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  whether  the 
present  case  is  an  instance  of  crime  or  not,  but  the  course  of 
events  is  certainly  among  the  most  singular  that  I  have  ever 
listened  to.  Perhaps,  Mr.  Wilson,  you  would  have  the  great 
kindness  to  recommence  your  narrative.  I  ask  you,  not 
merely  because  my  friend  Dr.  Watson  has  not  heard  the 
opening  part,  but  also  because  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  story 
makes  me  anxious  to  have  every  possible  detail  from  your 
lips.  As  a  rule,  when  I  have  heard  some  slight  indication  of 
the  course  of  events,  I  am  able  to  guide  myself  by  the  thou- 
sands of  other  similar  cases  which  occur  to  my  memory.  In 
the  present  instance  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  the  facts  are, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  unique.'* 

The  portly  client  puffed  out  his  chest  with  an  appearance  of 
some  little  pride,  and  pulled  a  dirty  and  wrinkled  newspaper 
from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  great-coat.  As  he  glanced  down 
the  advertisement  column,  with  his  head  thrust  fonvard,  and 
the  paper  flattened  out  upon  his  knee,  I  took  a  good  look  at 
the  man,  and  endeavored,  after  the  fashion  of  my  companion, 
to  read  the  indications  which  might  be  presented  by  his  dress 
or  appearance. 

I  did  not  gain  very  much,  however,  by  my  inspection.     Our 


168  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

visitor  bore  every  mark  of  being  an  average  commonplace 
British  tradesman,  obese,  pompous,  and  slow.  He  vrore  rather 
baggy  gray  shepherd's  check  trousers,  a  not  over-clean  black 
frock-coat,  unbuttoned  in  the  front,  and  a  drab  vraistcoat  with 
a  heavy  brassy  Albert  chain,  and  a  square  pierced  bit  of  metal 
dangling  down  as  an  ornament.  A  frayed  top-hat  and  a  faded 
brown  overcoat  with  a  wrinkled  velvet  collar  lay  upon  a  chair 
beside  him.  Altogether,  look  as  I  would,  there  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  the  man  save  his  blazing  red  head,  and  the 
expression  of  extreme  chagrin  and  discontent  upon  his  fea- 
tures. 

Sherlock  Holmes's  quick  eye  took  in  my  occupation,  and 
he  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  as  he  noticed  my  questioning 
glances.  "Beyond  the  obvious  facts  that  he  has  at  some  time 
done  manual  labor,  that  he  takes  snuff,  that  he  is  a  Freemason, 
that  he  has  been  in  China,  and  that  he  has  done  a  consid- 
erable amount  of  writing  lately,  I  can  deduce  nothing  else." 

Mr.  Jabez  Wilson  started  up  in  his  chair,  with  his  forefinger 
upon  the  paper,  but  his  eyes  upon  my  companion. 

'  *  How,  in  the  name  of  good-fortune,  did  you  know  all  that, 
Mr.  Holmes?"  he  asked.  ''How  did  you  know,  for  example, 
that  I  did  manual  labor?  It  's  as  true  as  gospel,  for  I  began 
as  a  ship 's  carpenter. '  * 

"Your  hands,  my  dear  sir.  Your  right  hand  is  quite  a  size 
larger  than  your  left.  You  have  worked  with  it,  and  the 
muscles  are  more  developed." 

"Well,  the  snuff,  then,  and  the  Freemasonry?" 

"I  won't  insult  your  intelligence  by  telling  you  how  I  read 
that,  especially  as,  rather  against  the  strict  rules  of  your  order, 
you  use  an  arc-and-compass  breastpin." 

"Ah,  of  course,  I  forgot  that.     But  the  writing?" 

"What  else  can  be  indicated  by  that  right  cuff  so  yery 
shiny  for  five  inches,  and  the  left  one  with  the  smooth  patch 
near  the  elbow  where  you  rest  it  upon  the  desk  ? ' ' 

"Well,  but  China?" 

"The  fish  that  you  have  tattooed  immediately  above  your 
right  wrist  could  only  have  been  done  in  China.  I  have  made 
a  small  study  of  tattoo  marks,  and  have  even  contributed  tc 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  169 

the  literature  of  the  subject.  That  trick  of  staining  the  fishes ' 
scales  a  delicate  pink  is  quite  peculiar  to  China.  When,  in 
addition,  I  see  a  Chinese  coin  hanging  from  your  watch-chain, 
the  matter  becomes  even  more  simple." 

Mr.  Jabez  Wilson  laughed  heavily.  "Well,  I  never!"  said 
he.  "I  thought  at  first  that  you  had  done  something  clever, 
but  I  see  that  there  was  nothing  in  it,  after  all." 

*'I  begin  to  think,  Watson,"  said  Holmes,  "that  I  make  a 
mistake  in  explaining.  'Oynne  ignotum  pro  magnifico/  you 
know,  and  my  poor  little  reputation,  such  as  it  is,  will  sutfer 
shipwreck  if  I  am  so  candid.  Can  you  not  find  the  advertise- 
ment, Mr.  Wilson?" 

"Yes,  I  have  got  it  now,"  he  answered,  with  his  thick,  red 
finger  planted  half-way  down  the  column.  "Here  it  is.  This 
is  what  began  it  all.     You  just  read  it  for  yourself,  sir." 

I  took  the  paper  from  him,  and  read  as  follows : 

"To  THE  Red-headed  League:  On  account  of  the  be- 
quest of  the  late  Ezekiah  Hopkins,  of  Lebanon,  Pa.,  U.S.A., 
there  is  now  another  vacancy  open  which  entitles  a  member 
of  the  League  to  a  salary  of  £4  a  week  for  purely  nominal 
services.  All  red-headed  men  who  are  sound  in  body  and 
mind,  and  above  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  are  eligible.  Ap- 
ply in  person  on  Monday,  at  eleven  o'clock,  to  Duncan  Ross, 
at  the  offices  of  the  League,  7  Pope 's  Court,  Fleet  Street. 


>  > 


"W^hat  on  earth  does  this  mean?"  I  ejaculated,  after  I  had 
twice  read  over  the  extraordinary  announcement. 

Holmes  chuckled,  and  wriggled  in  his  chair,  as  was  his 
habit  when  in  high  spirits.  "It  is  a  little  off  the  beaten 
track,  isn't  it?"  said  he.  "And  now,  Mr.  Wilson,  off  you  go 
at  saratch,  and  tell  us  all  about  yourself,  your  household,  and 
the  effect  which  this  advertisement  had  upon  your  fortunes. 
You  will  first  make  a  note,  doctor,  of  the  paper  and  the 
date." 

"It  is  The  Morning  Chronicle,  of  April  27,  1890.  Just  two 
months  ago. ' ' 

"Very  good.    Now,  Mr.  Wilson?" 


17#  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 


I  f 


Well,  it  is  just  as  I.  have  been  telling  you,  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes,"  said  Jabez  Wilson,  mopping  his  forehead;  ''I  have 
a  small  pawnbroker's  business  at  Coburg  Square,  near  the 
city.  It  's  not  a  very  large  affair,  and  of  late  years  it  has  not 
done  more  than  just  give  me  a  living.  I  used  to  be  able  to 
keep  two  assistants,  but  now  I  only  keep  one;  and  I  would 
have  a  job  to  pay  him,  but  that  he  is  willing  to  come  for  half 
wages,  so  as  to  learn  the  business. ' ' 

' '  What  is  the  name  of  this  obliging  youth  ? ' '  asked  Sherlock 
Holmes. 

' '  His  name  is  Vincent  Spaulding,  and  he  's  not  such  a  youth, 
either.  It  's  hard  to  say  his  age.  I  should  not  wish  a  smarter 
assistant,  Mr.  Holmes;  and  I  know  very  well  that  he  could 
better  himself,  and  earn  twice  what  I  am  able  to  give  him. 
But,  after  all,  if  he  is  satisfied,  why  should  I  put  ideas  in  his 
head?" 

''Why,  indeed?"  You  seem  most  fortunate  in  having  an 
employe  who  comes  under  the  full  market  price.  It  is  not  a 
common  experience  among  employers  in  this  age.  I  don't 
know  that  your  assistant  is  not  as  remarkable  as  your  adver- 
tisement. ' ' 

"Oh,  he  has  his  faults,  too,"  said  Mr.  W^ilson.  "Never 
was  such  a  fellow  for  photography.  Snapping  away  with  a 
camera  when  he  ought  to  be  improving  his  mind,  and  then 
diving  down  into  the  cellar  like  a  rabbit^  into  its  hole  to  de- 
velop his  pictures.  That  is  his  main  fault;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  's  a  good  worker.     There  's  no  vice  in  him." 

"He  is  still  with  you,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  and  a  girl  of  fourteen,  who  does  a  bit  of 
simple  cooking,  and  keeps  the  place  clean — that  's  all  I  have 
in  the  house,  for  I  am  a  widower,  and  never  had  any  family. 
We  live  very  quietly,  sir,  the  three  of  us ;  and  we  keep  a  roof 
over  our  heads,  and  pay  our  debts,  if  we  do  nothing  more. 

"The  first  thing  that  put  us  out  was  that  advertisement. 
Spaulding,  he  came  down  into  the  office  just  this  day  eight 
weeks,  with  this  very  paper  in  his  hand,  and  he  says : 

"  'I  wish  to  the  Lord,  Mr.  Wilson,  that  I  was  a  red-headed 
man.' 


A.  CON  AN  DOYLE  171  : 

I 


< <  (' 


Why  that?'  I  asks. 

Why,'  says  he,  'here  's  another  vacancy  in  the  League  of 
the  Red-headed  Men.  It  's  worth  quite  a  little  fortune  to  any 
man  who  gets  it,  and  I  understand  that  there  are  more  vacan- 
cies than  there  are  men,  so  that  the  trustees  are  at  their  wits' 
end  what  to  do  with  the  money.  If  my  hair  would  only 
change  color,  here  's  a  nice  little  crib  all  ready  for  me  to  step 
into.' 

' '  '  Why,  what  is  it,  then  ? '  I  asked.  You  see,  Mr.  Holmes,  I 
am  a  very  stay-at-home  man,  and  as  my  business  came  to  me 
instead  of  my  having  to  go  to  it,  I  was  often  weeks  on  end 
without  putting  my  foot  over  the  door-mat.  In  that  way  I 
did  n  't  know  much  of  what  was  going  on  outside,  and  I  was 
always  glad  of  a  bit  of  news. 

*'  'Have  you  never  heard  of  the  League  of  the  Red-headed 
Men?'  he  asked,  with  his  eyes  open. 
' '  '  Never. ' 

<'  'Why,  I  wonder  at  that,  for  you  are  eligible  yourself  for 
one  of  the  vacancies. ' 

And  what  are  they  worth  ? '  I  asked. 

Oh,  merely  a  couple  of  hundred  a  year,  but  the  work  is 
slight,  and  it  need  not  interfere  very  much  with  one's  other 
occupations.' 

"Well,  you  can  easily  think  that  that  made  me  prick  up  my 
ears,  for  the  business  has  not  been  over-good  for  some  years, 
and  an  extra  couple  of  hundred  would  have  been  very  handy. 

Tell  me  all  about  it,'  said  I. 

Well,'  said  he,  showing  me  the  advertisement,  'you  can 
see  for  yourself  that  the  League  has  a  vacancy,  and  there  is 
the  address  where  you  should  apply  for  particulars.  As  far  as 
I  can  make  out,  the  League  was  founded  by  an  American 
millionaire,  Ezekiah  Hopkins,  who  was  very  peculiar  in  his 
ways.  He  was  himself  red-headed,  and  he  had  a  great  sym- 
pathy for  all  red-headed  men ;  so,  when  he  died,  it  was  found 
that  he  had  left  his  enormous  fortune  in  the  hands  of  trustees, 
with  instructions  to  applj^  the  interest  to  the  providing  of  easy 
berths  to  men  whose  hair  is  of  that  color.  From  all  I  hear  it 
is  splendid  pay,  and  very  little  to  do.' 


<  (  < 

Hi 


172  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

**  'But,'  said  I,  'there  would  be  millions  of  red-headed  men 
who  would  apply/ 

"  'Not  so  many  as  you  might  think/  he  answered.  'You 
see  it  is  really  confined  to  Londoners,  and  to  grown  men. 
This  American  had  started  from  London  when  he  was  young, 
and  he  wanted  to  do  the  old  town  a  good  turn.  Then,  again, 
I  have  heard  it  is  no  use  your  applying  if  your  hair  is  light 
red,  or  dark  red,  or  anything  but  real  bright,  blazing,  fiery  red. 
Now,  if  you  cared  to  apply,  Mr.  Wilson,  you  would  just  walk 
in ;  but  perhaps  it  would  hardly  be  worth  your  while  to  put 
yourself  out  of  the  way  for  the  sake  of  a  few  hundred  pounds. ' 

' '  Now,  it  is  a  fact,  gentlemen,  as  you  may  see  for  yourselves, 
that  my  hair  is  of  a  very  full  and  rich  tint,  so  that  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  if  there  was  to  be  any  competition  in  the  matter,  I 
stood  as  good  a  chance  as  any  man  that  I  had  ever  met. 
Vincent  Spaulding  seemed  to  know  so  much  about  it  that  I 
thought  he  might  prove  useful,  so  I  just  ordered  him  to  put 
up  the  shutters  for  the  day,  and  to  come  right  away  with  me. 
He  was  very  willing  to  have  a  holiday,  so  we  shut  the  business 
up,  and  started  off  for  the  address  that  was  given  us  in  the 
advertisement. 

' '  I  never  hope  to  see  such  a  sight  as  that  again,  Mr.  Holmes. 
From  north,  south,  east,  and  west  every  man  who  had  a  shade 
of  red  in  his  hair  had  tramped  into  the  city  to  answer  the 
advertisement.  Fleet  Street  was  choked  with  red-headed  folk, 
and  Pope's  Court  looked  like  a  coster's  orange  barrow.  I 
should  not  have  thought  there  were  so  many  in  the  whole 
country  as  were  brought  together  by  that  single  advertise- 
ment. Every  shade  of  color  they  were — straw,  lemon,  orange, 
brick,  Irish-setter,  liver,  clay;  but,  as  Spaulding  said,  there 
were  not  many  who  had  the  real  vivid  flame-colored  tint. 
When  I  saw  how  many  were  waiting,  I  would  have  given  it  up 
in  despair ;  but  Spaulding  would  not  hear  of  it.  How  he  did 
it  I  could  not  imagine,  but  he  pushed  and  pulled  and  butted 
until  he  got  me  through  the  crowd,  and  right  up  to  the  steps 
which  led  to  the  office.  There  was  a  double  stream  upon  the 
stair,  some  going  up  in  hope,  and  some  coming  back  dejected ; 


A.  CON  AN  DOYLE  173 

but  we  wedged  in  as  well  as  we  could,  and  soon  found  our- 
selves in  the  office." 

"Your  experience  has  been  a  most  entertaining  one,"  re- 
marked Holmes,  as  his  client  paused  and  refreshed  his  mem- 
ory with  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff.  "Pray  continue  your  very 
interesting  statement. ' ' 

"There  was  nothing  in  the  office  but  a  couple  of  wooden 
chairs  and  a  deal  table,  behind  which  sat  a  small  man,  with  a 
head  that  was  even  redder  than  mine.  He  said  a  few  words 
to  each  candidate  as  he  came  up,  and  then  he  always  managed 
to  find  some  fault  in  them  which  would  disqualify  them.  Get- 
ting a  vacancy  did  not  seem  to  be  such  a  very  easy  matter, 
after  all.  However,  when  our  turn  came,  the  little  man  was 
much  more  favorable  to  me  than  to  any  of  the  others,  and  he 
closed  the  door  as  we  entered,  so  that  he  might  have  a  private 
word  with  us. 

"  'This  is  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson,'  said  my  assistant,  'and  he  is 
willing  to  fill  a  vacancy  in  the  League.' 

"  'And  he  is  admirably  suited  for  it,'  the  other  answered. 
'He  has  every  requirement.  I  cannot  recall  when  I  have  seen 
anything  so  fine.'  He  took  a  step  backward,  cocked  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  gazed  at  my  hair  until  I  felt  quite  bashful. 
Then  suddenly  he  plunged  forward,  wrung  my  hand,  and  con- 
gratulated me  warmly  on  my  success. 

"  'It  would  be  injustice  to  hesitate,'  said  he.  'You  will, 
however,  I  am  sure,  excuse  me  for  taking  an  obvious  precau- 
tion.' With  that  he  seized  my  hair  in  both  his  hands,  and 
tugged  until  I  yelled  with  the  pain.  '  There  is  water  in  your 
eyes,'  said  he,  as  he  released  me.  'I  perceive  that  all  is  as  it 
should  be.  But  we  have  to  be  careful,  for  we  have  twice  been 
deceived  hy  wigs  and  once  by  paint.  I  could  tell  you  tales  of 
cobbler's  wax  which  would  disgust  you  with  human  nature.' 
He  stepped  over  to  the  window,  and  shouted  through  it  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  that  the  vacancy  was  filled.  A  groan  of  dis- 
appointment came  up  from  below,  and  the  folk  all  trooped 
away  in  different  directions,  until  there  was  not  a  red  head  to 
be  seen  except  my  own  and  that  of  the  manager. 


174  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 


( i 


'My  name,'  said  he,  'is  Mr.  Duncan  Ross,  and  I  am  my- 
self one  of  the  pensioners  upon  the  fund  left  by  our  noble 
benefactor.  Are  you  a  married  man,  Mr.  Wilson  ?  Have  you 
a  family?'  >^ 

' '  I  answered  that  I  had  not. 

*'His  face  fell  immediately. 

**  'Dear  me!'  he  said,  gravely,  'that  is  very  serious  indeed! 
I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that.  The  fund  was,  of  course, 
for  the  propagation  and  spread  of  the  red-heads  as  well  as  for 
their  maintenance.  It  is  exceedingly  unfortunate  that  you 
should  be  a  bachelor.' 

"My  face  lengthened  at  this,  Mr.  Holmes,  for  I  thought 
that  I  was  not  to  have  the  vacancy  after  all;  but,  after 
thinking  it  over  for  a  few  minutes,  he  said  that  it  would  be 
all  right. 

"  'In  the  case  of  another,'  said  he,  'the  objection  might  be 
fatal,  but  we  must  stretch  a  point  in  favor  of  a  man  with  such 
a  head  of  hair  as  yours.  When  shall  you  be  able  to  enter 
upon  your  new  duties?' 

"  'Well,  it  is  a  little  awkward,  for  I  have  a  business  al- 
ready,' said  I. 

"  'Oh,  never  mind  about  that,  Mr.  Wilson!'  said  Vincent 
Spaulding.     'I  shall  be  able  to  look  after  that  for  you.' 

"  'What  would  be  the  hours?'  I  asked. 

"  'Ten  to  two.' 

"Now  a  pawnbroker's  business  is  mostly  done  of  an  eve- 
ning, Mr.  Holmes,  especially  Thursday  and  Friday  evening, 
which  is  just  before  pay-day;  so  it  would  suit  me  very  well 
to  earn  a  little  in  the  mornings.  Besides,  I  knew  that  my 
assistant  was  a  good  man,  and  that  he  would  see  to  anything 
that  turned  up. 

'That  would  suit  me  very  well,'  said  I.     *And  the  pay?* 
'Is  £4  a  week.' 
'And  the  work?' 
'Is  purely  nominal.' 
'  What  do  you  call  purely  nominal  ? ' 
'Well,  you  have  to  be  in  the  office,  or  at  least  in  the 
building,  the  whole  time.     If  you  leave,  you  forfeit  your  whole 


I  C    i 

i  i  i 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  175 

position  forever.  The  will  is  very  clear  upon  that  point. 
You  don't  comply  with  the  conditions  if  you  budge  from  the 
office  during  that  time.' 

"  'It  's  only  four  hours  a  day,  and  I  should  not  think  of 
leaving,'  said  I. 

*'  'No  excuse  will  avail,'  said  Mr.  Duncan  Ross;  'neither 
sickness  nor  business  nor  anything  else.  There  you  must 
stay,  or  you  lose  your  billet.' 

"  'And  the  work?' 

"  'Is  to  copy  out  the  "Encyclopaedia  Britannica."     There 
is  the  first  volume  of  it  in  that  press.     You  must  find  your 
own  ink,  pens,  and  blotting-paper,  but  we  provide  this  table 
and  chair.     Will  you  be  ready  to-morrow?' 
Certainly,'  I  answered. 

Then,  good-bye,  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson,  and  let  me  congratu- 
late you  once  more  on  the  important  position  which  you 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  gain.'  He  bowed  me  out  of 
the  room,  and  I  went  home  with  my  assistant,  hardly  know-< 
ing  what  to  say  or  do,  I  was  so  pleased  at  my  own  good 
fortune. 

"Well,  I  thought  over  the  matter  all  day,  and  by  evening  I 
was  in  low  spirits  again;  for  I  had  quite  persuaded  myself 
that  the  whole  affair  must  be  some  great  hoax  or  fraud, 
though  what  its  object  might  be  I  could  not  imagine.  It 
seemed  altogether  past  belief  that  any  one  could  make  such 
a  will,  or  that  they  would  pay  such  a  sum  for  doing  anything 
so  simple  as  copying  out  the  'Encyclopaedia  Britannica. ' 
Vincent  Spaulding  did  what  he  could  to  cheer  me  up,  but  by 
bedtime  I  had  reasoned  myself  out  of  the  whole  thing.  How- 
ever, in  the  morning  I  determined  to  have  a  look  at  it  any- 
how, so  I  bought  a  penny  bottle  of  ink,  and  with  a  quill- 
pen,  and  seven  sheets  of  foolscap  paper,  I  started  off  for 
Pope's  Court. 

"Well,  to  my  surprise  and  delight,  everything  was  as  right 
as  possible.  The  table  was  set  out  ready  for  me,  and  Mr. 
Duncan  Ross  was  there  to  see  that  I  got  fairly  to  work.  He 
started  me  off  upon  the  letter  A,  and  then  he  left  me ;  but  he 
would  drop  in  from  time  to  time  to  see  that  all  was  right  with 


176  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

me.  At  two  o'clock  he  bade  me  good-day,  complimented  me 
upon  the  amount  that  I  had  written,  and  locked  the  door  of 
the  office  after  me. 

' '  This  went  on  day  after  day,  Mr.  Holmes,  and  on  Saturday 
the  manager  came  in  and  planked  down  four  golden  sov- 
ereigns for  my  week's  work.  It  was  the  same  next  week,  and 
the  same  the  week  after.  Every  morning  I  was  there  at  ten, 
and  every  afternoon  I  left  at  two.  By  degrees  Mr.  Duncan 
Ross  took  to  coming  in  only  once  of  a  morning,  and  then, 
after  a  time,  he  did  not  come  in  at  all.  Still,  of  course,  I  never 
dared  to  leave  the  room  for  an  instant,  for  I  was  not  sure 
when  he  might  come,  and  the  billet  was  such  a  good  one, 
and  suited  me  so  well,  that  I  would  not  risk  the  loss 
of  it. 

"Eight  weeks  passed  away  like  this,  and  I  had  written 
about  Abbots  and  Archery  and  Armor  and  Architecture  and 
Attica,  and  hoped  with  diligence  that  I  might  get  on  to  the 
B's  before  very  long.  It  cost  me  something  in  foolscap,  and  I 
had  pretty  nearly  filled  a  shelf  with  my  writings.  And  then 
suddenly  the  whole  business  came  to  an  end." 

"To  an  end?" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  no  later  than  this  morning.  I  went  to  my 
work  as  usual  at  ten  o'clock,  but  the  door  was  shut  and 
locked,  with  a  little  square  of  card-board  hammered  on  to  the 
middle  of  the  panel  with  a  tack.  Here  it  is,  and  you  can  read 
for  yourself." 

He  held  up  a  piece  of  white  card-board  about  the  size  of  a 
sheet  of  note-paper.     It  read  in  this  fashion: 

"The  Red-headed  League 

IS  I 

Dissolved. 

October  9,1890.'' 


Sherlock  Holmes  and  I  surveyed  this  curt  announcement 
and  the  rueful  face  behind  it,  until  the  comical  side  of  the 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  177 

affair  so  completely  overtopped  every  other  consideration  that 
we  both  burst  out  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

''I  cannot  see  that  there  is  anything  very  funny,"  cried 
our  client,  flushing  up  to  the  roots  of  his  flaming  head.  *'If 
you  can  do  nothing  better  than  laugh  at  me,  I  can  go  else- 
where. ' ' 

*'No,  no,"  cried  Holmes,  shoving  him  back  into  the  chair 
from  which  he  had  half  risen.  ' '  I  really  would  n  't  miss  your 
case  for  the  world.  It  is  most  refreshingly  unusual.  But 
there  is,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  something  just  a 
little  funny  about  it.  Pray  what  steps  did  you  take  when 
you  found  the  card  upon  the  door?" 

*'I  was  staggered,  sir.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Then 
I  called  at  the  offices  round,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to 
know  anything  about  it.  Finally,  I  went  to  the  landlord,  who 
is  an  accountant  living  on  the  ground-floor,  and  I  asked  him 
if  he  could  tell  me  what  had  become  of  the  E-ed-headed 
League.  He  said  that  he  had  never  heard  of  any  such  body. 
Then  I  asked  him  who  Mr.  Duncan  Ross  was.  He  answered 
that  the  name  was  new  to  him. 

"  'Well,'  said  I,  'the  gentleman  at  No.  4.' 

"  'What,  the  red-headed  man?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'Oh,'  said  he,  'his  name  was  William  Morris.  He  was  a 
solicitor,  and  was  using  my  room  as  a  temporary  convenience 
until  his  new  premises  were  ready.     He  moved  out  yesterday.' 

*'  'Where  could  I  find  him?' 

"  'Oh,  at  his  new  offices.  He  did  tell  me  the  address.  Yes, 
17  King  Edward  Street,  near  St.  Paul's.' 

"I  started  off,  Mr.  Holmes,  but  when  I  got  to  that  address 
it  was  a  manufactory  of  artificial  knee-caps,  and  no  one  in  it 
had  ever  heard  of  either  Mr.  William  IMorris  or  Mr.  Duncan 
Ross. ' ' 

And  what  did  you  do  then?"  asked  Holmes. 
I  went  home  to  Saxe-Coburg  Square,  and  I  took  the  ad- 
vice of  my  assistant.     But  he  could  not  help  me  in  any  way. 
He  could  only  say  that  if  I  waited  I  should  hear  by  post. 


178  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

But  that  was  not  quite  good  enough,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  did  not 
wish  to  lose  such  a  place  without  a  struggle,  so,  as  I  had 
heard  that  you  were  good  enough  to  give  advice  to  poor  folk 
who  were  in  need  of  it,  I  came  right  away  to  you. 

"And  you  did  very  wisely,'^  said  Holmes.  ''Your  case  is 
an  exceedingly  remarkable  one,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  look 
into  it.  From  what  you  have  told  me  I  think  that  it  is  pos- 
sible that  graver  issues  hang  from  it  than  might  at  first  sight 
appear.'' 

"Grave  enough!"  said  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson.  "Why,  I  have 
lost  four  pound  a  week." 

"As  far  as  you  are  personally  concerned,"  remarked 
Holmes,  "  I  do  not  see  that  you  have  any  grievance  against  this 
extraordinary  league.  On  the  contrary,  you  are,  as  I  under- 
stand, richer  by  some  £30,  to  say  nothing  of  the  minute  knowl- 
edge which  you  have  gained  on  every  subject  which  comes 
under  the  letter  A.     You  have  lost  nothing  by  them." 

"No,  sir.  But  I  want  to  find  out  about  them,  and  who 
they  are,  and  what  their  object  was  in  playing  this  prank — if 
it  was  a  prank — upon  me.  It  was  a  pretty  expensive  joke  for 
them,  for  it  cost  them  two  and  thirty  pounds." 

"We  shall  endeavor  to  clear  up  these  points  for  you.  And, 
first,  one  or  two  questions,  Mr.  Wilson.  This  assistant  of 
yours  who  first  called  your  attention  to  the  advertisement — 
how  long  had  he  been  with  you?" 

' '  About  a  month  then. ' ' 

"  How  did  he  come  ? " 

"In  answer  to  an  advertisement." 

"Was  he  the  only  applicant?" 

"No,  I  had  a  dozen." 

"Why  did  you  pick  him?" 

"Because  he  was  handy,  and  would  come  cheap." 

"At  half-wages,  in  fact." 

"Yes." 

"What  is  he  like,  this  Vincent  Spaulding?" 

"Small,  stout-built,  very  quick  in  his  ways,  no  hair  on  his 
face,  though  he  's  not  short  of  thirty.  Has  a  white  splash  of 
acid  upon  his  forehead. 


>  > 


<  ( 

i  i 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  179 

Holmes  sat  up  in  his  chair  in  considerable  excitement.  "I 
thought  as  much,"  said  he.  "Have  you  ever  observed  that 
his  ears  are  pierced  for  earrings?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  told  me  that  a  gypsy  had  done  it  for  him 
when  he  was  a  lad." 

' '  Hum ! ' '  said  Holmes,  sinking  back  in  deep  thought.  ' '  He 
is  still  with  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  have  only  just  left  him. ' ' 

"And  has  your  business  been  attended  to  in  your  absence?" 

"Nothing  to  complain  of,  sir.  There  's  never  very  much  to 
do  of  a  morning." 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Wilson.  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you 
an  opinion  upon  the  subject  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two. 
To-day  is  Saturday,  and  I  hope  that  by  Monday  we  may 
come  to  a  conclusion. ' ' 

Well,  Watson, ' '  said  Holmes,  when  our  visitor  had  left  us, 

what  do  you  make  of  it  all  ? " 

"I  make  nothing  of  it,"  I  answered,  frankly.  "It  is  a 
most  mysterious  business." 

"  As  a  rule, ' '  said  Holmes,  ' '  the  more  bizarre  a  thing  is  the 
less  mysterious  it  proves  to  be.  It  is  your  commonplace, 
featureless  crimes  which  are  really  puzzling,  just  as  a  com- 
monplace face  is  the  most  difficult  to  identify.  But  I  must 
be  prompt  over  this  matter." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?"  I  asked. 

"To  smoke,"  he  answered.  "It  is  quite  a  three-pipe 
problem,  and  I  beg  that  you  won't  speak  to  me  for  fifty  min- 
utes. ' '  He  curled  himself  up  in  his  chair,  with  his  thin  knees 
drawn  up  to  his  hawk-like  nose,  and  there  he  sat  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  black  clay  pipe  thrusting  out  like  the  bill  of 
some  strange  bird.  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
had  dropped  asleep,  and  indeed  was  nodding  myself,  when  he 
suddenly  sprang  out  of  his  chair  with  the  gesture  of  a  man 
who  has  made  up  his  mind,  and  put  his  pipe  down  upon  the 
mantel-piece. 

"Sarasate  plays  at  the  St.  James's  Hall  this  afternoon,"  he 
remarked.  "What  do  you  think,  Watson?  Could  your  pa- 
tients spare  you  for  a  few  hours? 


5) 


180  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

''I  have  nothing  to  do  to-day.  My  practice  is  never  very 
absorbing. ' ' 

''Then  put  on  your  hat  and  come.  I  am  going  through 
the  city  first,  and  we  can  have  some  lunch  on  the  way.  I 
observe  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  German  music  on  the 
program  which  is  rather  more  to  my  taste  than  Italian  or 
French.  It  is  introspective,  and  I  want  to  introspect.  Come 
along ! ' ' 

We  travelled  by  the  Underground  as  far  as  Aldersgate; 
and  a  short  walk  took  us  to  Saxe-Coburg  Square,  the  scene 
of  the  singular  story  which  we  had  listened  to  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  a  pokey,  little,  shabby-genteel  place,  where  four 
lines  of  dingy  two-storied  brick  houses  looked  out  into  a 
small  railed-in  enclosure,  where  a  lawn  of  weedy  grass  and  a 
few  clumps  of  faded  laurel-bushes  made  a  hard  fight  against 
a  smoke-laden  and  uncongenial  atmosphere.  Three  gilt  balls 
and  a  brown  board  with  ''Jabez  Wilson"  in  white  letters, 
upon  a  corner  house,  announced  the  place  where  our  red- 
headed client  carried  on  his  business.  Sherlock  Holmes 
stopped  in  front  of  it  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  looked 
it  all  over,  with  his  eyes  shining  brightly  between  puckered 
lids.  Then  he  walked  slowly  up  the  street,  and  then  down 
again  to  the  corner,  still  looking  keenly  at  the  houses.  Finally 
he  returned  to  the  pawnbroker's,  and,  having  thumped  vig- 
orously upon  the  pavement  with  his  stick  two  or  three  times, 
he  went  up  to  the  door  and  knocked.  It  was  instantly 
opened  by  a  bright-looking,  clean-shaven  young  fellow,  who 
asked  him  to  step  in. 

''Thank  you,"  said  Holmes,  "I  only  wished  to  ask  you 
how  you  would  go  from  here  to  the  Strand. ' ' 

*' Third  right,  fourth  left,"  answered  the  assistant, 
promptly,  closing  the  door. 

"Smart  fellow,  that,"  observed  Holmes,  as  we  walked  away. 
"He  is,  in  my  judgment,  the  fourth  smartest  man  in  London, 
and  for  daring  I  am  not  sure  that  he  has  not  a  claim  to  be 
third.     I  have  known  something  of  him  before. ' ' 

"Evidently,"  said  I,  "Mr.  Wilson's  assistant  counts  for  a 
good  deal  in  this  mystery  of  the  Red-headed  League.     I  am 


A.  CON  AN  DOYLE  181 

sure  that  you  inquired  your  way  merely  in  order  that  you 
might  see  him." 

''Not  him." 

''What  then?" 

"The  knees  of  his  trousers." 

"And  what  did  you  see?" 

"What  I  expected  to  see." 

"Why  did  you  beat  the  pavement?" 

"My  dear  doctor,  this  is  a  time  for  observation,  not  for 
talk.  We  are  spies  in  an  enemy's  country.  AVe  know  some- 
thing of  Saxe-Coburg  Square.  Let  us  now  explore  the  parts 
which  lie  behind  it." 

The  road  in  which  we  found  ourselves  as  we  turned  round 
the  corner  from  the  retired  Saxe-Coburg  Square  presented  as 
great  a  contrast  to  it  as  the  front  of  a  picture  does  to  the 
back.  It  was  one  of  the  main  arteries  which  convey  the 
traffic  of  the  city  to  the  north  and  west.  The  roadway  was 
blocked  with  the  immense  stream  of  commerce  flowing  in  a 
double  tide  inward  and  outward,  while  the  foot-paths  were 
black  with  the  hurrying  swarm  of  pedestrians.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  realize  as  we  looked  at  the  line  of  fine  shops  and 
stately  business  premises  that  they  really  abutted  on  the 
other  side  upon  the  faded  and  stagnant  square  which  we  had 
just  quitted. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Holmes,  standing  at  the  corner,  and 
glancing  along  the  line,  "I  should  like  just  to  remember  the 
order  of  the  houses  here.  It  is  a  hobby  of  mine  to  have  an 
exact  knowledge  of  London.  There  is  Mortimer's,  the  tobac- 
conist, the  little  newspaper  shop,  the  Coburg  branch  of  the 
City  and  Suburban  Bank,  the  Vegetarian  Restaurant,  and 
McFarlane's  carriage-building  depot.  That  carries  us  right 
on  to  the  other  block.  And  now,  doctor,  we  've  done  our 
work,  so  it  's  time  we  had  some  play.  A  sandwich  and  a  cup 
of  coffee,  and  then  off  to  violin-land,  where  all  is  sweetness 
and  delicacy  and  harmony,  and  there  are  no  red-headed  clients 
to  vex  us  with  their  conundrums." 

My  friend  was  an  enthusiastic  musician,  being  himself 
not  only  a  very  capable  performer,  but  a  composer  of  no 


182  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

ordinary  merit.  All  the  afternoon  lie  sat  in  the  stalls 
wrapped  in  the  most  perfect  happiness,  gently  waving  his 
long,  thin  fingers  in  time  to  the  music,  while  his  gently 
smiling  face  and  his  languid,  dreamy  eyes  were  as  unlike 
those  of  Holmes,  the  sleuth-hound,  Holmes  the  relentless, 
keen-witted,  ready-handed  criminal  agent,  as  it  was  possible 
to  conceive.  In  his  singular  character  the  dual  nature  alter- 
nately asserted  itself,  and  his  extreme  exactness  and  astute- 
ness represented,  as  I  have  often  thought,  the  reaction  against 
the  poetic  and  contemplative  mood  which  occasionally  pre- 
dominated in  him.  The  swing  of  his  nature  took  him  from 
extreme  languor  to  devouring  energy;  and,  as  I  knew  well, 
he  was  never  so  truly  formidable  as  when,  for  days  on  end, 
he  had  been  lounging  in  his  arm-chair  amid  his  improvisations 
and  his  black-letter  editions.  Then  it  was  that  the  lust  of 
the  chase  would  suddenly  come  upon  him,  and  that  his  bril- 
liant reasoning  power  would  rise  to  the  level  of  intuition, 
until  those  who  vs^ere  unacquainted  with  his  methods  would 
look  askance  at  him  as  on  a  man  whose  knowledge  was  not 
that  of  other  mortals.  When  I  saw  him  that  afternoon  so 
enwrapped  in  the  music  at  St.  James's  Hall  I  felt  that  an 
evil  time  might  be  coming  upon  those  whom  he  had  set  him- 
self to  hunt  down. 

*'You  want  to  go  home,  no  doubt,  doctor,"  he  remarked, 
as  we  emerged. 

*'Yes,  it  would  be  as  well. 

*'And  I  have  some  business  to  do  which  will  take  some 
hours.     This  business  at  Coburg  Square  is  serious." 

''Why  serious?" 

"A  considerable  crime  is  in  contemplation.  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  we  shall  be  in  time  to  stop  it.  But  to- 
day being  Saturday  rather  complicates  matters.  I  shall  want 
your  help  to-night." 

' '  At  what  time  ? ' ' 

"Ten  will  be  early  enough." 

*'I  shall  be  at  Baker  Street  at  ten." 

"Very  well.  And,  I  say,  doctor,  there  may  be  some  little 
danger,  so  kindly  put  your  army  revolver  in  your  pocket  "" 


>> 


5  J 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  183 

He  waved  his  hand,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  disappeared  in 
an  instant  among  the  crowd. 

I  trust  that  1  am  not  more  dense  than  my  neighbors,  but  I 
was  always  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  my  own  stupidity  in  my 
dealings  with  Sherlock  Holmes.  Here  I  had  heard  what  he 
had  heard,  I  had  seen  what  he  had  seen,  and  yet  from  his 
words  it  was  evident  that  he  saw  clearly  not  only  what  had 
happened,  but  what  was  about  to  happen,  while  to  me  the 
whole  business  was  still  confused  and  grotesque.  As  I  drove 
home  to  my  house  in  Kensington  I  thought  over  it  all,  from 
the  extraordinary  story  of  the  red-headed  copier  of  the  ' '  En- 
cyclopaedia"  down  to  the  visit  to  Saxe-Coburg  Square,  and 
the  ominous  words  with  which  he  had  parted  from  me.  What 
was  this  nocturnal  expedition,  and  why  should  I  go  armed? 
Where  were  we  going,  and  what  were  we  to  do?  I  had  the 
hint  from  Holmes  that  this  smooth-faced  pawnbroker's  as- 
sistant was  a  formidable  man — a  man  who  might  play  a  deep 
game.  I  tried  to  puzzle  it  out,  but  gave  it  up  in  despair, 
and  set  the  matter  aside  until  night  should  bring  an  ex- 
planation. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  nine  when  I  started  from  home  and 
made  my  way  across  the  Park,  and  so  through  Oxford  Street 
to  Baker  Street.  Two  hansoms  were  standing  at  the  door, 
and,  as  I  entered  the  passage,  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
from  above.  On  entering  his  room  I  found  Holmes  in  an- 
imated conversation  with  two  men,  one  of  whom  I  recognized 
as  Peter  Jones,  the  official  police  agent,  while  the  other  was 
a  long,  thin,  sad-faced  man,  with  a  very  shiny  hat  and 
oppressively  respectable  frock-coat. 

"Ha!  our  party  is  complete,"  said  Holmes,  buttoning  up 
his  pea-jacket,  and  taking  his  heavy  hunting  crop  from  the 
rack.  "Watson,  I  think  you  know  Mr.  Jones,  of  Scotland 
Yard?  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Merry  weather,  w^ho  is 
to  be  our  companion  in  to-night's  adventure." 

"We  're  hunting  in  couples  again,  doctor,  you  see,"  said 
Jones,  in  his  consequential  way.  "Our  friend  here  is  a 
wonderful  man  for  starting  a  chase.  All  he  wants  is  an  old 
dog  to  help  him  to  do  the  running  down," 


184  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

''I  hope  a  wild  goose  may  not  prove  to  be  the  end  of  our 
chase,"  observed  Mr.  Merry  weather,  gloomily. 

"You  may  place  considerable  confidence  in  Mr.  Holmes, 
sir,"  said  the  police  agent,  loftily.  "He  has  his  own  little 
m^^thods,  which  are,  if  he  won't  mind  my  saying  so,  just  a 
little  too  theoretical  and  fantastic,  but  he  has  the  makings  of 
a  detective  in  him.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  once 
or  twice,  as  in  that  business  of  the  Sholto  murder  and  the 
Agra  treasure,  he  has  been  more  nearly  correct  than  the 
official  force." 

"Oh,  if  you  say  so,  Mr.  Jones,  it  is  all  right,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  deference.  "Still,  I  confess  that  I  miss  my 
rubber.  It  is  the  first  Saturday  night  for  seven-and-twenty 
years  that  I  have  not  had  my  rubber. ' ' 

"I  think  you  will  find,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  "that  you 
will  play  for  a  higher  stake  to-night  than  you  have  ever  done 
yet,  and  that  the  play  will  be  more  exciting.  For  you,  Mr. 
Merryweather,  the  stake  will  be  some  £30,000,  and  for  you, 
Jones,  it  will  be  the  man  upon  whom  you  wish  to  lay  your 
hands. ' ' 

"John  Clay,  the  murderer,  thief,  smasher,  and  forger. 
He  's  a  young  man,  Mr.  Merryweather,  but  he  is  at  the  head  of 
his  profession,  and  I  would  rather  have  my  bracelets  on  him 
than  on  any  criminal  in  London.  He  's  a  remarkable  man,  is 
young  John  Clay.  His  grandfather  was  a  royal  duke,  and  he 
himself  has  been  to  Eton  and  Oxford.  His  brain  is  as 
cunning  as  his  fingers,  and  though  we  meet  signs  of  him  at 
every  turn,  we  never  know  where  to  find  the  man  himself. 
He'll  crack  a  crib  in  Scotland  one  week,  and  be  raising  money 
to  build  an  orphanage  in  Cornwall  the  next.  I  've  been  on 
his  track  for  years,  and  have  never  set  eyes  on  him  yet." 

"I  hope  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you 
to-night.  I  've  had  one  or  two  little  turns  also  with  ]\Ir.  John 
Clay,  and  I  agree  with  you  that  he  is  at  the  head  of  his  pro- 
fession. It  is  past  ten,  however,  and  quite  time  that  we 
started.  If  you  two  will  take  the  first  hansom,  Watson  and 
I  will  follow  in  the  second." 

Sherlock  Holmes  was  not  very  communicative  during  the 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  185 

long  drive,  and  lay  back  in  the  cab  humming  the  tunes  which 
he  had  heard  in  the  afternoon.  We  rattled  through  an  end- 
less labyrinth  of  gas-lit  streets  until  we  emerged  into  Farring- 
don  Street. 

"We  are  close  there  now,"  my  friend  remarked.  "This 
fellow  Merryweather  is  a  bank  director,  and  personally  inter- 
ested in  the  matter.  I  thought  it  as  well  to  have  Jones  with 
us  also.  He  is  not  a  bad  fellow,  though  an  absolute  imbecile 
in  his  profession.  He  has  one  positive  virtue.  He  is  as 
brave  as  a  bull-dog,  and  as  tenacious  as  a  lobster  if  he  gets 
his  claws  upon  any  one.  Here  we  are,  and  they  are  waiting 
for  us. ' ' 

We  had  reached  the  same  crowded  thoroughfare  in  which 
we  had  found  ourselves  in  the  morning.  Our  cabs  were  dis- 
missed, and,  following  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Merrj^weather,  we 
passed  down  a  narrow  passage  and  through  a  side  door,  which 
he  opened  for  us.  Within  there  was  a  small  corridor,  which 
ended  in  a  very  massive  iron  gate.  This  also  was  opened, 
and  led  down  a  flight  of  winding  stone  steps,  which  termi- 
nated at  another  formidable  gate.  Mr.  Merryweather  stopped 
to  light  a  lantern,  and  then  conducted  us  down  a  dark,  earth- 
smelling  passage,  and  so,  after  opening  a  third  door,  into  a 
huge  vault  or  cellar,  which  was  piled  all  round  with  crates  and 
massive  boxes. 

"You  are  not  very  vulnerable  from  above,"  Holmes  re- 
marked, as  he  held  up  the  lantern  and  gazed  about  him. 

"Nor  from  below,"  said  Mr.  Merryweather,  striking  his 
stick  upon  the  flags  which  lined  the  floor.  "Why,  dear  me, 
it  sounds  quite  hollow ! "  he  remarked,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

"I  must  really  ask  you  to  be  a  little  more  quiet,"  said 
Holmes,  severely.  "You  have  already  imperilled  the  whole 
success  of  our  expedition.  Might  I  beg  that  you  would  have 
the  goodness  to  sit  down  upon  one  of  those  boxes,  and  not 
to  interfere?" 

The  solemn  Mr.  Merryweather  perched  himself  upon  a 
crate,  with  a  very  injured  expression  upon  his  face,  while 
Holmes  fell  upon  his  knees  upon  the  floor,  and,  with  the  lan- 
tern and  a  magnifying  lens,  began  to  examine  minutely  the 


186  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

cracks  between  the  stones.  A  few  seconds  sufficed  to  satisfy 
him,  for  he  sprang  to  his  feet  again,  and  put  his  glass  in  his 
pocket. 

"We  have  at  least  an  hour  before  us,"  he  remarked;  "for 
they  can  hardly  take  any  steps  until  the  good  pawnbroker  is 
safely  in  bed.  Then  they  will  not  lose  a  minute,  for  the 
sooner  they  do  their  work  the  longer  time  they  will  have  for 
their  escape.  We  are  at  present,  doctor — as  no  doubt  you 
have  divined — in  the  cellar  of  the  city  branch  of  one  of  the 
principal  London  banks.  Mr.  Merryweather  is  the  chairman 
of  directors,  and  he  will  explain  to  you  that  there  are  reasons 
why  the  more  daring  criminals  of  London  should  take  a  con- 
siderable interest  in  this  cellar  at  present." 

"It  is  our  French  gold,"  whispered  the  director.  "We 
have  had  several  warnings  that  an  attempt  might  be  made 
upon  it." 

"Your  French  gold?" 

"Yes.  We  had  occasion  some  months  ago  to  strengthen 
our  resources,  and  borrowed,  for  that  purpose,  30,000  napo- 
leons from  the  Bank  of  France.  It  has  become  known  that 
we  have  never  had  occasion  to  unpack  the  money,  and  that 
it  is  still  lying  in  our  cellar.  The  crate  upon  which  I  sit 
contains  2000  napoleons  packed  between  layers  of  lead  foil. 
Our  reserve  of  bullion  is  much  larger  at  present  than  is  usu- 
ally kept  in  a  single  branch  office,  and  the  directors  have  had 
misgivings  upon  the  subject." 

* '  Which  were  very  well  justified, ' '  observed  Holmes.  ' '  And 
now  it  is  time  that  we  arranged  our  little  plans.  I  expect 
that  within  an  hour  matters  will  come  to  a  head.  In  the 
mean  time,  Mr.  Merryweather,  we  must  put  the  screen  over 
that  dark  lantern." 

"And  sit  in  the  dark?" 

"I  am  afraid  so.  I  had  brought  a  pack  of  cards  in  my 
pocket,  and  I  thought  that,  as  we  were  a  partie  carree,  you 
might  have  your  rubber  after  all.  But  I  see  that  the  enemy's 
preparations  have  gone  so  far  that  we  cannot  risk  the  pres- 
ence of  a  light.  And,  first  of  all,  we  must  choose  our  posi- 
tions.    These  are  daring  men,  and  though  we  shall  take  them 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  187 

at  a  disadvantage,  they  may  do  us  some  harm  unless  we  are 
careful.  I  shall  stand  behind  this  crate,  and  do  you  conceal 
yourselves  behind  those.  Then,  when  I  flash  a  light  upon 
them,  close  in  swiftly.  If  they  fire,  Watson,  have  no  com- 
punction about  shooting  them  down." 

I  placed  my  revolver,  cocked,  upon  the  top  of  the  wooden 
case  behind  which  I  crouched.  Holmes  shot  the  slide  across 
the  front  of  his  lantern,  and  left  us  in  pitch  darkness — such 
an  absolute  darkness  as  I  have  never  before  experienced. 
The  smell  of  hot  metal  remained  to  assure  us  that  the  light 
was  still  there,  ready  to  flash  out  at  a  moment's  notice.  To 
me,  with  my  nerves  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  expectancy,  there 
was  something  depressing  and  subduing  in  the  sudden  gloom, 
and  in  the  cold,  dank  air  of  the  vault. 

"They  have  but  one  retreat,"  whispered  Holmes.  ''That 
is  back  through  the  house  into  Saxe-Coburg  Square.  I  hope 
that  you  have  done  what  I  asked  you,  Jones?" 

''I  have  an  inspector  and  two  officers  waiting  at  the  front 
door. ' ' 

''Then  we  have  stopped  all  the  holes.  And  now  we  must 
be  silent  and  wait." 

What  a  time  it  seemed  !  From  comparing  notes  afterwards 
it  was  but  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  yet  it  appeared  to  me  that 
the  night  must  have  almost  gone,  and  the  dawn  be  breaking 
above  us.  My  limbs  were  weary  and  stiff,  for  I  feared  to 
change  my  position;  yet  my  nerves  were  worked  up  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  tension,  and  my  hearing  was  so  acute  that  I 
could  not  only  hear  the  gentle  breathing  of  my  companions, 
but  I  could  distinguish  the  deeper,  heavier  in-breath  of  the 
bulky  elones  from  the  thin,  sighing  note  of  the  bank  director. 
From  my  position  I  could  look  over  the  case  in  the  direction 
of  the  floor.     Suddenly  my  eyes  caught  the  glint  of  a  light. 

At  first  it  was  but  a  lurid  spark  upon  the  stone  pavement. 
Then  it  lengthened  out  until  it  became  a  yellow  line,  and 
then,  without  any  warning  or  sound,  a  gash  seemed  to  open 
and  a  hand  appeared;  a  white,  almost  womanly  hand,  which 
felt  about  in  the  center  of  the  little  area  of  light.  For  a  min- 
ute or  more  the  hand,  with  its  writhing  fingers,  protruded  out 


188  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

of  the  floor.  Then  it  was  withdrawn  as  suddenly  as  it  ap- 
peared, and  all  was  dark  again  save  the  single  lurid  spark 
which  marked  a  chink  between  the  stones. 

Its  disappearance,  however,  was  but  momentary.  With  a 
rending,  tearing  sound,  one  of  the  broad,  white  stones  turned 
over  upon  its  side,  and  left  a  square,  gaping  hole,  through 
which  streamed  the  light  of  a  lantern.  Over  the  edge  there 
peeped  a  clean-cut,  boyish  face,  which  looked  keenly  about  it, 
and  then,  with  a  hand  on  either  side  of  the  aperture,  drew  it- 
self shoulder-high  and  waist-high,  until  one  knee  rested  upon 
the  edge.  In  another  instant  he  stood  at  the  side  of  the 
hole,  and  was  hauling  after  him  a  companion,  lithe  and  small 
like  himself,  with  a  pale  face  and  a  shock  of  very  red  hair. 

"It  's  all  clear,"  he  whispered.  "Have  you  the  chisel  and 
the  bags  ?  Great  Scott !  Jump,  Archie,  jump,  and  I  '11  swing 
for  it!" 

Sherlock  Holmes  had  sprung  out  and  seized  the  intruder 
by  the  collar.  The  other  dived  down  the  hole,  and  I  heard 
the  sound  of  rending  cloth  as  Jones  clutched  at  his  skirts. 
The  light  flashed  upon  the  barrel  of  a  revolver,  but  Holmes's 
hunting  crop  came  down  on  the  man's  wrist,  and  the  pistol 
clinked  upon  the  stone  floor. 

"It  's  no  use,  John  Clay,"  said  Holmes,  blandly.  "You 
have  no  chance  at  all." 

"So  I  see,"  the  other  answered,  with  the  utmost  coolness. 
"I  fancy  that  my  pal  is  all  right,  though  I  see  you  have  got 
his  coat-tails." 

"There  are  three  men  waiting  for  him  at  the  door,"  said 
Holmes. 

"Oh,  indeed!  You  seem  to  have  done  the  thing  very  com- 
pletely.    I  must  compliment  you." 

"And  I  you,"  Holmes  answered.  "Your  red-headed  idea 
was  very  new  and  effective. ' ' 

"You  '11  see  your  pal  again  presently,"  said  Jones.  "He  's 
quicker  at  climbing  down  holes  than  I  am.  Just  hold  out 
while  I  fix  the  derbies." 

* '  I  beg  that  you  will  not  touch  me  with  your  filthy  hands, ' ' 
remarked  our  prisoner,  as  the  handcuffs  clattered  upon  his 


A.  CON  AN  DOYLE  189 

wrists.  **You  may  not  be  aware  that  I  have  royal  blood  in 
my  veins.  Have  the  goodness,  also,  when  you  address  me  al- 
ways to  say  'sir'  and  'please.'  " 

"All  right,"  said  Jones,  with  a  stare  and  a  snigger.  "Well, 
would  you  please,  sir,  march  up-stairs,  where  we  can  get  a  cab 
to  carry  your  highness  to  the  police-station?" 

"That  is  better,"  said  John  Clay,  serenely.  He  made  a 
sweeping  bow  to  the  three  of  us,  and  walked  quietly  off  in  the 
custody  of  the  detective. 

"Really  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  Mr.  Merryweather,  as  we  fol- 
lowed them  from  the  cellar,  "  I  do  not  know  how  the  bank  can 
thank  you  or  repay  you.  There  is  no  doubt  that  you  have 
detected  and  defeated  in  the  most  complete  manner  one  of 
the  most  determined  attempts  at  bank  robbery  that  have  ever 
come  within  my  experience." 

"I  have  had  one  or  two  little  scores  of  my  own  to  settle 
with  Mr.  John  Clay,"  said  Holmes.  "I  have  been  at  some 
small  expense  over  this  matter,  which  I  shall  expect  the  bank 
to  refund,  but  bej^ond  that  I  am  amply  repaid  by  having  had 
an  experience  which  is  in  many  ways  unique,  and  by  hearing 
the  very  remarkable  narrative  of  the  Red-headed  League." 


<  ( 


You  see,  Watson,"  he  explained,  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning,  as  we  sat  over  a  glass  of  whiskey-and-soda  in  Baker 
Street,  "it  was  perfectly  obvious  from  the  first  that  the  only 
possible  object  of  this  rather  fantastic  business  of  the  adver- 
tisement of  the  League,  and  the  copying  of  the  'Encyclo- 
paedia, '  must  be  to  get  this  not  over-bright  pawnbroker  out  of 
the  way  for  a  number  of  hours  every  day.  It  was  a  curious 
way  of  managing  it,  but,  really,  it  would  be  difficult  to  suggest 
a  better.  The  method  was  no  doubt  suggested  to  Clay's  in- 
genious mind  by  the  color  of  his  accomplice's  hair.  The  £4  a 
week  was  a  lure  which  must  draw  him,  and  what  was  it  to 
them,  who  were  playing  for  thousands?  They  put  in  the  ad- 
vertisement, one  rogue  has  the  temporary  office,  the  other 
rogue  incites  the  man  to  apply  for  it,  and  together  they  man- 
age to  secure  his  absence  every  morning  in  the  week.  From 
the  time  that  I  heard  of  the  assistant  having  come  for  half 


190  THE  RED-HEADED  LEAGUE 

wages,  it  was  obvious  to  me  that  he  had  some  strong  motive 
for  securing  the  situation. ' ' 

**But  how  could  you  guess  what  the  motive  was?" 
*'Had  there  been  women  in  the  house,  I  should  have  sus- 
pected a  mere  vulgar  intrigue.  That,  however,  was  out  of  the 
question.  The  man's  business  was  a  small  one,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  his  house  which  could  account  for  such  elabo- 
rate preparations,  and  such  an  expenditure  as  they  were  at. 
It  must,  then,  be  something  out  of  the  house.  What  could  it 
be?  I  thought  of  the  assistant's  fondness  for  photography, 
and  his  trick  of  vanishing  into  the  cellar.  The  cellar !  There 
was  the  end  of  this  tangled  clue.  Then  I  made  inquiries  as 
to  this  mysterious  assistant,  and  found  that  I  had  to  deal  with 
one  of  the  coolest  and  most  daring  criminals  in  London.  He 
was  doing  something  in  the  cellar — something  which  took 
many  hours  a  day  for  months  on  end.  What  could  it  be,  once 
more  ?  I  could  think  of  nothing  save  that  he  was  running  a 
tunnel  to  some  other  building. 

*'So  far  I  had  got  when  we  went  to  visit  the  scene  of 
action.  I  surprised  you  by  beating  upon  the  pavement  with 
my  stick.  I  was  ascertaining  whether  the  cellar  stretched  out 
in  front  or  behind.  It  was  not  in  front.  Then  I  rang  the  bell, 
and,  as  I  hoped,  the  assistant  answered  it.  We  have  had 
some  skirmishes,  but  we  had  never  set  eyes  upon  each  other 
before.  I  hardly  looked  at  his  face.  His  knees  were  what  I 
wished  to  see.  You  must  yourself  have  remarked  how  worn, 
wrinkled,  and  stained  they  were.  They  spoke  of  those  hours 
of  burrowing.  The  only  remaining  point  was  what  they  were 
burrowing  for.  I  walked  round  the  corner,  saw  that  the  City 
and  Suburban  Bank  abutted  on  our  friend 's  premises,  and  felt 
that  I  had  solved  my  problem.  When  you  drove  home  after 
the  concert  I  called  upon  Scotland  Yard,  and  upon  the  chair- 
man of  the  bank  directors,  with  the  result  that  you  have 


seen. ' ' 


''And  how  could  you  tell  that  they  would  make  their  at- 
tempt to-night?"  I  asked. 

''Well,  when  they  closed  their  League  offices  that  was  a 
sign  that  they  cared  no  longer  about  Mr.  Jabez  Wilson's  pres- 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE  191 

ence — in  other  words,  that  they  had  completed  their  tunnel. 
But  it  was  essential  that  they  should  use  it  soon,  as  it  might 
be  discovered,  or  the  bullion  might  be  removed.  Saturday 
would  suit  them  better  than  any  other  day,  as  it  would  give 
them  two  days  for  their  escape.  For  all  these  reasons  I  ex- 
pected them  to  come  to-night." 

''You  reasoned  it  out  beautifully,"  I  exclaimed,  in  un- 
feigned admiration.  ''It  is  so  long  a  chain,  and  yet  every 
link  rings  true." 

"It  saved  me  from  ennui,"  he  answered,  yawning.  "Alas! 
I  already  feel  it  closing  in  upon  me.  My  life  is  spent  in  one 
long  effort  to  escape  from  the  commonplaces  of  existence. 
These  little  problems  help  me  to  do  so." 

"And  you  are  a  benefactor  of  the  race,"  said  I. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is 
of  some  little  use,"  he  remarked.  ^^  ^L'homme  c'est  rien — 
Voeuvre  c'est  tout/  as  Gustave  Flaubert  wrote  to  Georges 
Sand." 


ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 
By  OWEN  JOHNSON 

They  were  discussing  languidly,  as  such  groups  do,  seeking 
from  each  topic  a  peg  on  which  to  hang  a  few  epigrams  that 
might  be  retold  in  the  lip  currency  of  the  club — Steingall, 
the  painter,  florid  of  gesture,  and  effete,  foreign  in  type,  with 
black-rimmed  glasses  and  trailing  ribbon  of  black  silk  that 
cut  across  his  cropped  beard  and  cavalry  mustaches;  De 
Gollyer,  a  critic,  who  preferred  to  be  known  as  a  man  about 
town,  short,  feverish,  incisive,  who  slew  platitudes  with  one 
adjective  and  tagged  a  reputation  with  three;  Rankin,  the 
architect,  always  in  a  defensive,  explanatory  attitude,  who 
held  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  hands  before  his  long  sliding 
nose,  and  gestured  with  his  fingers;  Quinny,  the  illustrator, 
long  and  gaunt,  with  a  predatory  eloquence  that  charged 
irresistibly  down  on  any  subject,  cut  it  off,  surrounded  it, 
and  raked  it  with  enfilading  wit  and  satire ;  and  Peters,  whose 
methods  of  existence  were  a  mystery,  a  young  man  of  fifty, 
who  had  done  nothing  and  who  knew  every  one  by  his  first 
name,  the  club  postman,  who  carried  the  tittle-tattle,  the  hon 
mots  and  the  news  of  the  day,  who  drew  up  a  petition  a  week 
and  pursued  the  house  committee  with  a  daily  grievance. 

About  the  latticed  porch,  which  ran  around  the  sanded 
yard  with  its  feeble  fountain  and  futile  evergreens,  other 
groups  were  eying  one  another,  or  engaging  in  desultory  con- 
versation, oppressed  with  the  heaviness  of  the  night. 

At  the  round  table,  Quinny  alone,  absorbing  energy  as  he 
devoured  the  conversation,  having  routed  Steingall  on  the 
Germans  and  archaeology  and  Rankin  on  the  origins  of  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  had  seized  a  chance  remark  of  De  Gollyer 's  to 

say  : 

192 


OWEN  JOHNSON  193 

'*  There  are  only  half  a  dozen  stories  in  the  world.  Like 
everything  that  's  true  it  isn't  true."  He  waved  his  long, 
gouty  fingers  in  the  direction  of  Steingall,  who,  having  been 
silenced,  was  regarding  him  with  a  look  of  sleepy  indiffer- 
ence. ''What  is  more  to  the  point,  is  the  small  number  of 
human  relations  that  are  so  simple  and  yet  so  fundamental 
that  they  can  be  eternally  played  upon,  redressed,  and  reinter- 
preted in  every  language,  in  every  age,  and  yet  remain  in- 
exhaustible in  the  possibility  of  variations." 

"By  George,  that  is  so,"  said  Steingall,  waking  up. 
**  Every  art  does  go  back  to  three  or  four  notes.  In  composi- 
tion it  is  the  same  thing.  Nothing  new — nothing  new  since 
a  thousand  years.  By  George,  that  is  true !  We  invent  noth- 
ing, nothing!" 

''Take  the  eternal  triangle,"  said  Quinny  hurriedly,  not 
to  surrender  his  advantage,  while  Rankin  and  De  Gollyer  in 
a  bored  way  continued  to  gaze  dreamily  at  a  vagrant  star  or 
two.  "Two  men  and  a  woman,  or  two  women  and  a  man. 
Obviously  it  should  be  classified  as  the  first  of  the  great 
original  parent  themes.  Its  variations  extend  into  the  thou- 
sands. By  the  way,  Rankin,  excellent  opportunity,  eh,  for 
some  of  our  modern,  painstaking,  unemployed  jackasses  to 
analyze  and  classify." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Rankin  without  perceiving  the  satirical 
note.  "Now  there  's  De  Maupassant's  Fort  comme  la  Mort 
— quite  the  most  interesting  variation — shows  the  turn  a 
genius  can  give.  There  the  triangle  is  the  man  of  middle 
age,  the  mother  he  has  loved  in  his  youth  and  the  daughter  he 
comes  to  love.  It  forms,  you  might  say,  the  head  of  a  whole 
subdivision  of  modern  continental  literature." 

"Quite  wrong,  Rankin,  quite  wrong,"  said  Quinny,  who 
would  have  stated  the  other  side  quite  as  imperiously. 
"What  you  cite  is  a  variation  of  quite  another  theme,  the 
Faust  theme — old  age  longing  for  youth,  the  man  who  has 
loved  longing  for  the  love  of  his  youth,  which  is  youth  itself. 
The  triangle  is  the  theme  of  jealousy,  the  most  destructive 
and,  therefore,  the  most  dramatic  of  human  passions.  The 
Faust  theme  is  the  most  fundamental  and  inevitable  of  all 


194  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

human  experiences,  the  tragedy  of  life  itself.     Quite  a  differ- 
ent thing." 

Rankin,  who  never  agreed  with  Quinny  unless  Quinny 
maliciously  took  advantage  of  his  prior  announcement  to 
agree  with  him,  continued  to  combat  this  idea. 

"You  believe  then,"  said  De  Golly er  after  a  certain  mo- 
ment had  been  consumed  in  hair  splitting,  ' '  that  the  origin  of 
all  dramatic  themes  is  simply  the  expression  of  some  human 
emotion.  In  other  words,  there  can  exist  no  more  parent 
themes  than  there  are  human  emotions." 

* '  I  thank  you,  sir,  very  well  put, ' '  said  Quinny  with  a  gen- 
erous wave  of  his  hand.  ''Why  is  the  Three  Musketeers  a 
basic  theme?  Simply  the  interpretation  of  comradeship,  the 
emotion  one  man  feels  for  another,  vital  because  it  is  the  one 
peculiarly  masculine  emotion.  Look  at  Du  Maurier  and 
Trilby,  Kipling  in  Soldiers  Three — simply  the  Three  Mus- 
keteers." 

"The  Vie  de  Bohemef"  suggested  Steingall. 

"In  the  real  Vie  de  Boheme,  yes,"  said  Quinny  viciously. 
"Not  in  the  concocted  sentimentalities  that  we  now  have 
served  up  to  us  by  athletic  tenors  and  consumptive  ele- 
phants!" 

Rankin,  who  had  been  silently  deliberating  on  what  had 
been  left  behind,  now  said  cunningly  and  with  evident  pur- 
pose: 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  agree  with  you  men  at  all.  I  be- 
lieve there  are  situations,  original  situations,  that  are  inde- 
pendent of  your  human  emotions,  that  exist  just  because  they 
are  situations,  accidental  and  nothing  else." 

As  for  instance?"  said  Quinny,  preparing  to  attack. 
Well,  I  11  just  cite  an  ordinary  one  that  happens  to  come 
to  my  mind,"  said  Rankin,  who  had  carefully  selected  his 
test.  "In  a  group  of  seven  or  eight,  such  as  we  are  here,  a 
theft  takes  place ;  one  man  is  the  thief — which  one  ?  I  'd  like 
to  know  what  emotion  that  interprets,  and  yet  it  certainly 
is  an  original  theme,  at  the  bottom  of  a  whole  literature." 

This  challenge  was  like  a  bomb. 
Not  the  same  thing. ' ' 


n 


OWEN  JOHNSON  195 

** Detective  stories,  bah!" 

"Oh,  I  say,  Rankin,  that  's  literary  melodrama." 

Rankin,  satisfied,  smiled  and  winked  victoriously  over  to 
Tommers,  who  was  listening  from  an  adjacent  table. 

"Of  course  your  suggestion  is  out  of  order,  my  dear  man, 
to  this  extent,"  said  Quinny,  who  never  surrendered,  "in  that 
I  am  talking  of  fundamentals  and  you  are  citing  details. 
Nevertheless,  I  could  answer  that  the  situation  3^ou  give,  as 
well  as  the  whole  school  it  belongs  to,  can  be  traced  back  to 
the  commonest  of  human  emotions,  curiosity;  and  that  the 
story  of  Bluebeard  and  The  Moonstone  are  to  all  purposes 
identically  the  same." 

At  this  Steingall,  who  had  waited  hopefully,  gasped  and 
made  as  though  to  leave  the  table. 

"I  shall  take  up  your  contention,"  said  Quinny  without 
pause  for  breath,  "first,  because  you  have  opened  up  one  of 
my  pet  topics,  and,  second,  because  it  gives  me  a  chance  to 
talk."  He  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  Steingall  and  winked  at 
De  Gollyer.  "What  is  the  peculiar  fascination  that  the  de- 
tective problem  exercises  over  the  human  mind?  You  will 
say  curiosity.  Yes  and  no.  Admit  at  once  that  the  whole 
art  of  a  detective  story  consists  in  the  statement  of  the  prob- 
lem. Any  one  can  do  it.  I  can  do  it.  Steingall  even  can  do 
it.  The  solution  doesn't  count.  It  is  usually  banal;  it 
should  be  prohibited.  What  interests  us  is,  can  we  guess  it? 
Just  as  an  able-minded  man  will  sit  down  for  hours  and 
fiddle  over  the  puzzle  column  in  a  Sunday  balderdash.  Same 
idea.  There  you  have  it,  the  problem — the  detective  story. 
Now  why  the  fascination?  I  '11  tell  you.  It  appeals  to  our 
curiosity,  yes — but  deeper  to  a  sort  of  intellectual  vanity. 
Here  are  six  matches,  arrange  them  to  make  four  squares; 
five  men  present,  a  theft  takes  place — who  's  the  thief  ?  Who 
will  guess  it  first  ?  Whose  brain  will  show  its  superior  clever- 
ness—see?    That  's  all— that  's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Out  of  all  of  which,"  said  De  Gollyer,  "the  interesting 
thing  is  that  Rankin  has  supplied  the  reason  why  the  supply 
of  detective  fiction  is  inexhaustible.  It  does  all  come  down 
to  the  simplest  terms.     Seven  possibilities,  one  answer.     It 


i  i 


196  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  BARK 

is  a  formula,  ludicrously  simple,  mechanical,  and  yet  we 
will  always  pursue  it  to  the  end.  The  marvel  is  that  writers 
should  seek  for  any  other  formula  when  here  is  one  so  safe, 
that  can  never  fail.  Be  George,  I  could  start  up  a  factory 
on  it. ' ' 

"The  reason  is,"  said  Rankin,  ''that  the  situation  does 
constantly  occur.  It  's  a  situation  that  any  of  us  might  get 
into  any  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  now,  I  personally  know 
two  such  occasions  when  I  was  of  the  party;  and  very  un- 
comfortable it  was  too." 

What  happened?"  said  Steingall. 

Why,  there  is  no  story  to  it  particularly.  Once  a  mis- 
take had  been  made,  and  the  other  time  the  real  thief  was 
detected  by  accident  a  year  later.  In  both  cases  only  one 
or  two  of  us  knew  what  had  happened. ' ' 

De  Gollyer  had  a  similar  incident  to  recall.  Steingall, 
after  reflection,  related  another  that  had  happened  to  a 
friend. 

**0f  course,  of  course,  my  dear  gentlemen,"  said  Quinny 
impatiently,  for  he  had  been  silent  too  long,  "you  are  glorify- 
ing commonplaces.  Every  crime,  I  tell  you,  expresses  itself 
in  the  terms  of  the  picture  puzzle  that  you  feed  to  your  six- 
year-old.  It  's  only  the  variation  that  is  interesting.  Now 
quite  the  most  remarkable  turn  of  the  complexities  that  can 
be  developed  is,  of  course,  the  well-known  instance  of  the 
visitor  at  a  club  and  the  rare  coin.  Of  course  every  one 
knows  that?     What?" 

Rankin  smiled  in  a  bored,  superior  way,  but  the  others 
protested  their  ignorance. 

"Why,  it  's  very  well  known,"  said  Quinny  lightly.  "A 
distinguished  visitor  is  brought  into  a  club — dozen  men,  say, 
present,  at  dinner,  long  table.  Conversation  finally  veers 
around  to  curiosities  and  relics.  One  of  the  members  present 
then  takes  from  his  pocket  what  he  announces  as  one  of  the 
rarest  coins  in  existence — passes  it  around  the  table.  Coin 
travels  back  and  forth,  every  one  examining  it,  and  the  con- 
versation goes  to  another  topic,  say  the  influence  of  the  auto- 
mobile on  domestic  infelicity,  or  some  other  such  asininely 


OWEN  JOHNSON  197 

intellectual  club  topic — you  know?  All  at  once  the  owner 
calls  for  his  coin. 

''The  coin  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  Every  one  looks  at 
every  one  else.  First,  they  suspect  a  joke.  Then  it  becomes 
serious — the  coin  is  immensely  valuable.     "Who  has  taken  it? 

"The  owner  is  a  gentleman — does  the  gentlemanly  idiotic 
thing,  of  course,  laughs,  says  he  knows  some  one  is  playing  a 
practical  joke  on  hnn  and  that  the  coin  will  be  returned  to- 
morrow. The  others  refuse  to  leave  the  situation  so.  One 
man  proposes  that  they  all  submit  to  a  search.  Every  one 
gives  his  assent  until  it  comes  to  the  stranger.  He  refuses, 
curtly,  roughly,  without  giving  any  reason.  Uncomfortable 
silence — the  man  is  a  guest.  No  one  knows  him  particularly 
well — but  still  he  is  a  guest.  One  member  tries  to  make  him 
understand  that  no  offense  is  offered,  that  the  suggestion  was 
simply  to  clear  the  atmosphere,  and  all  that  sort  of  bally  rot, 
you  know. 

"  *I  refuse  to  allow  my  person  to  be  searched,'  says  the 
stranger,  very  firm,  very  proud,  very  English,  you  know,  'and 
I  refuse  to  give  my  reason  for  my  action.' 

"Another  silence.  The  men  eye  him  and  then  glance  at 
one  another.  What  's  to  be  done?  Nothing.  There  is  eti- 
quette— that  magnificent  inflated  balloon.  The  visitor  evi- 
dently has  the  coin — but  he  is  their  guest  and  etiquette  pro- 
tects him.     Nice  situation,  eh? 

"The  table  is  cleared.  A  waiter  removes  a  dish  of  fruit  and 
there  under  the  ledge  of  the  plate  where  it  had  been  pushed 
— is  the  coin.  Banal  explanation,  eh  ?  Of  course.  Solutions 
always  should  be.  At  once  every  one  in  profouse  apologies! 
Whereupon  the  visitor  rises  and  says : 

"  'Now  I  can  give  you  the  reason  for  my  refusal  to  be 
searched.  There  are  only  two  known  specimens  of  the  coin 
in  existence,  and  the  second  happens  to  be  here  in  my  waist- 
coat pocket.'  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Quinny  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
"the  story  is  well  invented,  but  the  turn  to  it  is  very  nice — 
very  nice  indeed." 

"I  did  know  the  story,"  said  Steingall,  to  be  disagreeable; 


198  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

''the  ending,  though,  is  too  obvious  to  be  invented.  The  visi- 
tor should  have  had  on  him  not  another  coin,  but  something 
absolutely  different,  something  destructive,  say,  of  a  woman's 
reputation,  and  a  great  tragedy  should  have  been  threatened 
by  the  casual  misplacing  of  the  coin." 

"I  have  heard  the  same  story  told  in  a  dozen  different 
ways,"  said  Kankin. 

''It  has  happened  a  hundred  times.  It  must  be  continually 
happening,"  said  Steingall. 

"I  know  one  extraordinary  instance,"  said  Peters,  who  up 
to  the  present,  secure  in  his  climax,  had  waited  with  a  pro- 
fessional smile  until  the  big  guns  had  been  silenced.  "In 
fact,  the  most  extraordinary  instance  of  this  sort  I  have  ever 
heard. ' ' 

"Peters,  you  little  rascal,"  said  Quinny  with  a  sidelong 
glance,  "I  perceive  you  have  quietly  been  letting  us  dress  the 
stage  for  you. ' ' 

"It  is  not  a  story  that  will  please  every  one,"  said  Peters, 
to  whet  their  appetite. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  will  want  to  know  what  no  one  can  ever 
know. '  ^ 

"It  has  no  conclusion  then?" 

"Yes  and  no.  As  far  as  it  concerns  a  woman,  quite  the 
most  remarkable  woman  I  have  ever  met,  the  story  is  com- 
plete. As  for  the  rest,  it  is  what  it  is,  because  it  is  one  ex- 
ample where  literature  can  do  nothing  better  than  record. ' ' 

"Do  I  know  the  woman?"  asked  De  Gollyer,  who  flattered 
himself  on  passing  through  e\ery  class  of  society. 

"Possibly,  but  no  more  than  any  one  else." 

"An  actress?" 

"What  she  has  been  in  the  past  I  don't  know — a  promoter 
would  better  describe  her.  Undoubtedly  she  has  been  behind 
the  scenes  in  many  an  untold  intrigue  of  the  business  world. 
A  very  feminine  woman,  and  yet,  as  you  shall  see,  with  an 
unusual  instantaneous  masculine  power  of  decision." 

"Peters,"  said  Quinny,  waving  a  warning  finger,   "you 


OWEN  JOHNSON  199 

are  destroying  your  story.     Your  preface  will  bring  an  anti- 
climax. ' ' 

"You  shall  judge,"  said  Peters,  who  waited  until  his  audi- 
ence was  in  strained  attention  before  opening  his  story. 
"The  names  are,  of  course,  disguises." 

Mrs.  Rita  Kildair  inhabited  a  charming  bachelor-girl 
studio,  very  elegant,  of  the  duplex  pattern,  in  one  of  the  build- 
ings just  off  Central  Park  West.  She  knew  pretty  nearly 
every  one  in  that  indescribable  society  in  New  York  that  is 
drawn  from  all  levels,  and  that  imposes  but  one  condition 
for  membership — to  be  amusing.  She  knew  every  one  and 
no  one  knew  her.  No  one  knew  beyond  the  vaguest  rumors 
her  history  or  her  means.  No  one  had  ever  heard  of  a  Mr. 
Kildair.  There  was  always  about  her  a  certain  defensive 
reserve  the  moment  the  limits  of  acquaintanceship  had  been 
reached.  She  had  a  certain  amount  of  money,  she  knew  a 
certain  number  of  men  in  Wall  Street  affairs,  and  her  studio 
was  furnished  with  taste  and  even  distinction.  She  was  of 
any  age.  She  might  have  suffered  everything  or  nothing  at 
all.  In  this  mingled  society  her  invitations  were  eagerly 
sought,  her  dinners  were  spontaneous,  and  the  discussions, 
though  gay  and  usually  daring,  were  invariably  under  the 
control  of  wit  and  good  taste. 

On  the  Sunday  night  of  this  adventure  she  had,  according 
to  her  invariable  custom,  sent  away  her  Japanese  butler  and 
invited  to  an  informal  chafing-dish  supper  seven  of  her  more 
congenial  friends,  all  of  whom,  as  much  as  could  be  said  of 
any  one,  were  habitues  of  the  studio. 

At  seven  o'clock,  having  finished  dressing,  she  put  in  or- 
der her  bedroom,  which  formed  a  sort  of  free  passage  between 
the  studio  and  a  small  dining  room  to  the  kitchen  beyond. 
Then,  going  into  the  studio,  she  lit  a  wax  taper  and  was  in 
the  act  of  touching  off  the  brass  candlesticks  that  lighted  the 
room  when  three  knocks  sounded  on  the  door  and  a  Mr. 
Flanders,  a  broker,  compact,  nervously  alive,  well  groomed, 
entered  with  the  informality  of  assured  acquaintance. 


200  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 


You  are  early/'  said  Mrs.  Kildair,  in  surprise.  | 

On  the  contrary,  you  are  late,"  said  the  broker,  glancing 

at  his  watch.  ; 

"Then  be  a  good  boy  and  help  me  with  the  candles,"  she      | 

said,  giving  him  a  smile  and  a  quick  pressure  of  her  fingers.      ] 

He  obeyed,  asking  nonchalantly :  \ 

*  *  I  say,  dear  lady,  who  's  to  be  here  to-night  V  i 

"The  Enos  Jacksons."  | 

"I  thought  they  were  separated."  \ 

''Not  yet."  : 

"Very    interesting!     Only    you,    dear    lady,    would    have      i 

thought  of  serving  us  a  couple  on  the  verge."  i 

It's  interesting,  isn't  it?" 

Assuredly.     Where  did  you  know  Jackson?"  \ 

Through  the  Warings.    Jackson  's  a  rather  doubtful  per-      ' 

son,  isn't  he?"  \ 

"Let  's  call  him  a  very  sharp  lawyer,"  said  Flanders  de-      ' 

fensively.     "They  tell  me,  though,  he  is  on  the  wrong  side  of      I 

the  market — in  deep.'*  i 

''And  you?"  j 

"Oh,  I?     I  'm  a  bachelor,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of  his      | 

shoulders,  "and  if  I  come  a  cropper  it  makes  no  difference."      ' 

' '  Is  that  possible  ? ' '  she  said,  looking  at  him  quickly.  ! 

"Probable  even.     And  who  else  is  coming?"  i 

"Maude  Lille — you  know  her?" 

' '  I  think  not. ' ' 

"You  met  her  here — a  journalist." 
"Quite  so,  a  strange  career." 

"Mr.    Harris,    a    clubman,    is    coming,    and    the    Stanley 
Cheevers. ' ' 

"The  Stanley  Cheevers!"  said   Flanders  with  some  sur- 
prise.    "Are  we  going  to  gamble?" 

"You  believe  in  that  scandal  about  bridge?" 
"Certainly  not,"  said  Flanders,  smiling.  "You  see  I  was 
present.  The  Cheevers  play  a  good  game,  a  well  united 
game,  and  have  an  unusual  system  of  makes.  By-the-way, 
it  's  Jackson  who  is  very  attentive  to  IMrs.  Cheever,  is  n  't 
it?" 


OWEN  JOHNSON  201 


<^n„u^   ^;«.v,+  " 


Quite  right. 

"What  a  charming  party,"  said  Flanders  flippantly. 
''And  where  does  Maude  Lille  come  in?" 

''Don't  joke.  She  is  in  a  desperate  way,"  said  Mrs.  Kil- 
dair,  with  a  little  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

"And  Harris?" 

"Oh,  he  is  to  make  the  salad  and  cream  the  chicken." 

"Ah,  I  see  the  whole  party.  I,  of  course,  am  to  add  the 
element  of  respectability." 

"Of  what?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  until  he  turned  away,  dropping 
his  glance. 

"Don't  be  an  ass  with  me,  my  dear  Flanders." 

"By  George,  if  this  were  Europe  I  'd  wager  you  were  in 
the  secret  service,  Mrs.  Kildair." 

"Thank  you." 

She  smiled  appreciatively  and  moved  about  the  studio,  giv- 
ing the  finishing  touches.  The  Stanley  Cheevers  entered,  a 
short  fat  man  with  a  vacant  fat  face  and  a  slow-moving  eye, 
and  his  wife,  voluble,  nervous,  overdressed  and  pretty.  Mr. 
Harris  came  with  Maude  Lille,  a  woman,  straight,  dark,  In- 
dian, with  great  masses  of  somber  hair  held  in  a  little  too 
loosely  for  neatness,  with  thick,  quick  lips  and  eyes  that 
rolled  away  from  the  person  who  was  talking  to  her.  The 
Enos  Jacksons  were  late  and  still  agitated  as  they  entered. 
His  forehead  had  not  quite  banished  the  scowl,  nor  her  eyes 
the  soorn.  He  was  of  the  type  that  never  lost  his  temper, 
but  caused  others  to  lose  theirs,  immovable  in  his  opinions, 
with  a  prowling  walk,  a  studied  antagonism  in  his  manner, 
and  an  impudent  look  that  fastened  itself  unerringly  on  the 
weakness  in  the  person  to  whom  he  spoke.  Mrs.  Jackson,  who 
seemed  fastened  to  her  husband  by  an  invisible  leash,  had 
a  hunted,  resisting  quality  back  of  a  certain  desperate  dash, 
which  she  assumed  rather  than  felt  in  her  attitude  toward 
life.  One  looked  at  her  curiously  and  wondered  what  such  a 
nature  would  do  in  a  crisis,  with  a  lurking  sense  of  a  woman 
who  carried  with  her  her  own  impending  tragedy. 

As  soon  as  the  company  had  been  completed  and  the  in- 


202  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

congruity  of  the   selection  had  been  perceived,   a  smile   of 
malicious  anticipation  ran  the  rounds,  which  the  hostess  cut . 
short  by  saying: 

"Well,  now  that  every  one  is  here,  this  is  the  order  of  the 
night:  You  can  quarrel  all  you  want,  you  can  whisper  all 
the  gossip  you  can  think  of  about  one  another,  but  every  one 
is  to  be  amusing !  Also  every  one  is  to  help  with  the  dinner 
— nothing  formal  and  nothing  serious.  We  may  all  be  bank- 
rupt to-morrow,  divorced  or  dead,  but  to-night  we  will  be  gay 
— that  is  the  invariable  rule  of  the  house!" 

Immediately  a  nervous  laughter  broke  out  and  the  company, 
chattering,  began  to  scatter  through  the  rooms. 

Mrs.  Kildair,  stopping  in  her  bedroom,  donned  a  Watteau- 
like  cooking  apron,  and  slipping  her  rings  from  her  fingers 
fixed  the  three  on  her  pincushion  with  a  hatpin. 

"Your  rings  are  beautiful,  dear,  beautiful,"  said  the  low 
voice  of  Maude  Lille,  who,  with  Harris  and  Mrs.  Cheever, 
was  in  the  room. 

"There  's  only  one  that  is  very  valuable,"  said  Mrs.  Kil- 
dair, touching  with  her  thin  fingers  the  ring  that  lay  upper- 
most, two  large  diamonds,  flanking  a  magnificent  sapphire. 

"It  is  beautiful — very  beautiful,"  said  the  journalist,  her 
eyes  fastened  to  it  with  an  uncontrollable  fascination.  She 
put  out  her  fingers  and  let  them  rest  caressingly  on  the  sap- 
phire, withdrawing  them  quickly  as  though  the  contact  had 
burned  them. 

"It  must  be  very  valuable,"  she  said,  her  breath  catching 
a  little.  Mrs.  Cheever,  moving  forward,  suddenly  looked  at 
the  ring. 

"It  cost  five  thousand  six  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Kildair, 
glancing  down  at  it.  *'It  has  been  my  talisman  ever  since. 
For  the  moment,  however,  I  am  cook;  Maude  Lille,  you  are 
scullery  maid ;  Harris  is  the  chef,  and  we  are  under  his  orders. 
Mrs.  Cheever,  did  you  ever  peel  onions?" 

"Good  Heavens,  no!"  said  Mrs.   Cheever,  recoiling. 

"Well,  there  are  no  onions  to  peel,"  said  Mrs.  Kildair, 
laughing.  "All  you  '11  have  to  do  is  to  help  set  the  table. 
On  to  the  kitchen!" 


OWEN  JOHNSON  203 

Under  their  hostess's  gay  guidance  the  seven  guests  began 
to  circulate  busily  through  the  rooms,  laying  the  table,  group- 
ing the  chairs,  opening  bottles,  and  preparing  the  material 
for  the  chafing  dishes.  Mrs.  Kildair,  in  the  kitchen,  ransacked 
the  ice  box,  and  with  her  own  hands  chopped  the  fines  herhes, 
shredded  the  chicken  and  measured  the  cream. 

*' Flanders,  carry  this  in  carefully,"  she  said,  her  hands  in 
a  towel.  "Cheever,  stop  watching  your  wife  and  put  the 
salad  bowl  on  the  table.  Everything  ready,  Harris?  All 
right.     Every  one  sit  down.     I  '11  be  right  in." 

She  went  into  her  bedroom,  and  divesting  herself  of  her 
apron  hung  it  in  the  closet.  Then  going  to  her  dressing  table 
she  drew  the  hatpin  from  the  pincushion  and  carelessly 
slipped  the  rings  on  her  fingers.  All  at  once  she  frowned 
and  looked  quickly  at  her  hand.  Only  two  rings  were  there, 
the  third  ring,  the  one  with  the  sapphire  and  the  two  dia- 
monds, was  missing. 

' '  Stupid, ' '  she  said  to  herself,  and  returned  to  her  dressing 
table.  All  at  once  she  stopped.  She  remembered  quite 
clearly  putting  the  pin  through  the  three  rings. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  search  further,  but  remained  with- 
out moving,  her  fingers  drumming  slowly  on  the  table,  her 
head  to  one  side,  her  lip  drawn  in  a  little  between  her  teeth, 
listening  with  a  frown  to  the  babble  from  the  outer  room. 
Who  had  taken  the  ring?  Each  of  her  guests  had  had  a 
dozen  opportunities  in  the  course  of  the  time  she  had  been 
busy  in  the  kitchen. 

''Too  much  time  before  the  mirror,  dear  lady,"  called  out 
Flanders  gaily,  who  from  where  he  was  seated  could  see  her. 

"It  is  not  he,"  she  said  quickly.  Then  she  reconsidered. 
''"Why  not?     He  is  clever — who  knows?     Let  me  think." 

To  gain  time  she  walked  back  slowly  into  the  kitchen,  her 
head  bowed,  her  thumb  between  her  teeth. 

' '  Who  has  taken  it  ? " 

She  ran  over  the  characters  of  her  guests  and  their  situa- 
tions as  she  knew  them.  Strangely  enough,  at  each  her  mind 
stopped  upon  some  reason  that  might  explain  a  sudden  tempta- 
tion. 


204  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

'^I  shall  find  out  nothing  this  way,"  she  said  to  herself 
after  a  moment's  deliberation;  ''that  is  not  the  important 
thing  to  me  just  now.  The  important  thing  is  to  get  the  ring 
back. ' ' 

And  slowly,  deliberately,  she  began  to  walk  back  and  forth, 
her  clenched  hand  beating  the  deliberate  rhythmic  measure  of 
her  journey. 

Five  minutes  later,  as  Harris,  installed  en  maitre  over  the 
chafing  dish,  was  giving  directions,  spoon  in  the  air,  Mrs. 
Kildair  came  into  the  room  like  a  lengthening  shadow.  Her 
entrance  had  been  made  with  scarcely  a  perceptible  sound, 
and  yet  each  guest  was  aware  of  it  at  the  same  moment,  with 
a  little  nervous  start. 

"Heavens,  dear  lady,"  exclaimed  Flanders,  "you  come  in 
on  us  like  a  Greek  tragedy!  What  is  it  you  have  for  us,  a 
surprise  ? ' ' 

As  he  spoke  she  turned  her  swift  glance  on  him,  drawing 
her  forehead  together  until  the  eyebrows  ran  in  a  straight 
line. 

*'I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  said  in  a  sharp, 
businesslike  manner,  watching  the  company  with  penetrating 
eagerness. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  seriousness  of  her  voice.  Mr. 
Harris  extinguished  the  oil  lamp,  covering  the  chafing  dish 
clumsily  with  a  discordant,  disagreeable  sound.  Mrs.  Cheever 
and  Mrs.  Enos  Jackson  swung  about  abruptly,  Maude  Lille 
rose  a  little  from  her  seat,  while  the  men  imitated  these  move- 
ments of  expectancy  with  a  clumsy  shuffling  of  the  feet. 

"Mr.  Enos  Jackson?" 
Yes,  Mrs.  Kildair." 
Kindly  do  as  I  ask  you." 
Certainly. ' ' 

She  had  spoken  his  name  with  a  peremptory  positiveness 
that  was  almost  an  accusation.  He  rose  calmly,  raising  his 
eyebrows  a  little  in  surprise. 

"Go  to  the  door,"  she  continued,  shifting  her  glance  from 
him  to  the  others.  "  Are  you  there  ?  Lock  it.  Bring  me  thft 
key. 


J  f 


i  < 


OWEN  JOHNSON  205 

He  executed  the  order  without  bungling,  and  returning 
stood  before  her,  tendering  the  key. 

"You  've  locked  it?"  she  said,  making  the  words  an  excuse 
to  bury  her  glance  in  his. 

''As  you  wished  me  to.'* 

' '  Thanks. ' ' 

She  took  from  him  the  key  and,  shifting  slightly,  likewise 
locked  the  door  into  her  bedroom  through  which  she  had 
come. 

Then  transferring  the  keys  to  her  left  hand,  seemingly 
unaware  of  Jackson,  who  still  awaited  her  further  commands, 
her  eyes  studied  a  moment  the  possibilities  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"Mr.  Cheever?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
^Yes,  Mrs.  Kildair." 

Blow  out  all  the  candles  except  the  candelabrum  on  the 
table." 

'Tut  out  the  lights,  Mrs.  Kildair?" 

' '  At  once. ' ' 

Mr.  Cheever,  in  rising,  met  the  glance  of  his  wife,  and 
the  look  of  questioning  and  wonder  that  passed  did  not  escape 
the  hostess. 

*'But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Kildair,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson  with  a 
little  nervous  catch  of  her  breath,  "what  is  it?  I  'm  getting 
terribly  worked  up!     My  nerves — " 

' '  Miss  Lille  ? ' '  said  the  voice  of  command. 

"Yes." 

The  journalist,  calmer  than  the  rest,  had  watched  the  pro- 
ceedings without  surprise,  as  though  fore-warned  by  profes- 
sional instinct  that  something  of  importance  was  about  to 
take  place.  Now  she  rose  quietly  with  an  almost  stealthy 
motion. 

"Put  the  candelabrum  on  this  table — here,"  said  Mrs.  Kil- 
dair, indicating  a  large  round  table  on  which  a  few  books 
were  grouped.  "No,  wait.  Mr.  Jackson,  first  clear  off  the 
table.     I  want  nothing  on  it. " 

"But,  Mrs.  Kildair — "  began  Mrs.  Jackson's  shrill  voice 


again. 


206  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DAKK 


?> 


''That  ^s  it.     Now  put  down  the  candelabrum. 

In  a  moment,  as  Mr.  Cheever  proceeded  methodically  on  his 
errand,  the  brilliant  crossfire  of  lights  dropped  in  the  studio, 
only  a  few  smoldering  wicks  winking  on  the  walls,  while  the 
high  room  seemed  to  grow  more  distant  as  it  came  under  the 
sole  dominion  of  the  three  candles  bracketed  in  silver  at  the 
head  of  the  bare  mahogany  table. 

' '  Now  listen ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Kildair,  and  her  voice  had  in  it  a 
cold  note.     "My  sapphire  ring  has  just  been  stolen." 

She  said  it  suddenly,  hurling  the  news  among  them  and 
waiting  ferret-like  for  some  indications  in  the  chorus  that 
broke  out. 

''Stolen!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Kildair!" 

' '  Stolen— by  Jove ! ' ' 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

"What!     Stolen  here— to-night ? " 

' '  The  ring  has  been  taken  within  the  last  twenty  minutes, ' ' 
continued  Mrs.  Kildair  in  the  same  determined,  chiseled  tone. 
"I  am  not  going  to  mince  words.  The  ring  has  been  taken 
and  the  thief  is  among  you." 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  heard  but  an  indescribable  gasp 
and  a  sudden  turning  and  searching,  then  suddenly  Cheever 's 
deep  bass  broke  out : 

Stolen!  But,  Mrs.  Kildair,  is  it  possible?" 
Exactly.  There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  said  Mrs. 
Kildair.  "Three  of  you  were  in  my  bedroom  when  I  placed 
my  rings  on  the  pincushion.  Each  of  you  has  passed  through 
there  a  dozen  times  since.  My  sapphire  ring  is  gone,  and  one 
of  you  has  taken  it." 

Mrs.  Jackson  gave  a  little  scream,  and  reached  heavily  for  a 
glass  of  water.  Mrs.  Cheever  said  something  inarticulate  in 
the  outburst  of  masculine  exclamation.  Only  Maude  Lille  s 
calm  voice  could  be  heard  saving : 

"Quite  true.  I  was  in  the  room  when  you  took  them  off. 
The  sapphire  ring  was  on  top." 

"Now  listen!"  said  Mrs.  Kildair,  her  eyes  on  Maude  Lille's 
eyes.     "  I  am  not  going  to  mince  words.     I  am  not  going  to 


OWEN  JOHNSON  2a7 

stand  on  ceremony.  I  'm  going  to  have  that  ring  back.  Lis- 
ten to  me  carefully.  I  'm  going  to  have  that  ring  back,  and 
until  I  do,  not  a  soul  shall  leave  this  room."  She  tapped  on 
the  table  with  her  nervous  knuckles.  "Who  has  taken  it  I 
do  not  care  to  know.  All  I  want  is  my  ring.  Now  I  'm  go- 
ing to  make  it  possible  for  whoever  took  it  to  restore  it  without 
possibility  of  detection.  The  doors  are  locked  and  will  stay 
locked.  I  am  going  to  put  out  the  lights,  and  I  am  going  to 
count  one  hundred  slowly.  You  will  be  in  absolute  darkness; 
no  one  will  know  or  see  what  is  done.  But  if  at  the  end  of 
that  time  the  ring  is  not  here  on  this  table  I  shall  telephone 
the  police  and  have  every  one  in  this  room  searched.  Am  I 
quite  clear?" 

Suddenly  she  cut  short  the  nervous  outbreak  of  suggestions 
and  in  the  same  firm  voice  continued : 

"Every  one  take  his  place  about  the  table.  That  's  it. 
That  will  do." 

The  women,  with  the  exception  of  the  inscrutable  Maude 
Lille,  gazed  hysterically  from  face  to  faccj  while  the  men, 
compressing  their  fingers,  locking  them  or  grasping  their 
chins,  looked  straight  ahead  fixedly  at  their  hostess. 

Mrs.  Kildair,  having  calmly  assured  herself  that  all  were 
ranged  as  she  wished,  blew  out  two  of  the  three  candles. 

"I  shall  count  one  hundred,  no  more,  no  less,"  she  said. 
"Either  I  get  back  that  ring  or  every  one  in  this  room  is  to 
be  searched,  remember." 

Leaning  over,  she  blew  out  the  remaining  candle  and  snuffed 
it. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five — " 

She  began  to  count  with  the  inexorable  regularity  of  a 
clock's  ticking. 

In  the  room  every  sound  was  distinct,  the  rustle  of  a  dress, 
the  grinding  of  a  shoe,  the  deep,  slightly  asthmatic  breathing 
of  a  man. 

"Twenty,  twenty-one,  twenty-two,  twenty-three — " 

She  continued  to  count,  while  in  the  methodic  unvarying 
note  of  her  voice  there  was  a  rasping  reiteration  that  began  to 
affect  the  company.     A  slight  gasping  breath,  uncontrollable, 


208  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

almost  on  the  verge  of  hysterics,  was  heard,  and  a  man  nerv- 
ously clearing  his  throat. 

''Forty-five,  forty-six,  forty-seven — " 

Still  nothing  had  happened.  Mrs.  Kildair  did  not  vary 
her  measure  the  slightest,  only  the  sound  became  more  metal- 
lic. 

*' Sixty-six,  sixty-seven,  sixty-eight,  sixty-nine  and  sev- 
enty—'' 

Some  one  had  sighed. 

''Seventy-three,  seventy-four,  seventy-five,  seventy-six, 
seventy-seven — ' ' 

All  at  once,  clear,  unmistakable,  on  the  resounding  plane  of 
the  table  was  heard  a  slight  metallic  note. 

"The  ring!" 

It  was  Maude  Lille's  quick  voice  that  had  spoken.  Mrs. 
Kildair  continued  to  count. 

"Eighty-nine,  ninety,  ninety-one — " 

The  tension  became  unbearable.  Two  or  three  voices  pro- 
tested against  the  needless  prolonging  of  the  torture. 

"Ninety-six,  ninety-seven,  ninety-eight,  ninety-nine  and  one 
hundred. ' ' 

A  match  sputtered  in  Mrs.  Kildair 's  hand  and  on  the  in- 
stant the  company  craned  forward.  In  the  center  of  the 
table  was  the  sparkling  sapphire  and  diamond  ring.  Candles 
were  lit,  flaring  up  like  searchlights  on  the  white  accusing 
faces. 

"Mr.  Cheever,  you  may  give  it  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Kildair. 
She  held  out  her  hand  without  trembling,  a  smile  of  triumph 
on  her  face,  which  had  in  it  for  a  moment  an  expression  of 
positive  cruelty. 

Immediately  she  changed,  contemplating  with  amusement 
the  horror  of  her  guests,  staring  blindly  from  one  to  another, 
seeing  the  indefinable  glance  of  interrogation  that  passed 
from  Cheever  to  Mrs.  Cheever,  from  Mrs.  Jackson  to  her  hus- 
band, and  then  without  emotion  she  said: 

"Now  that  that  is  over  we  can  have  a  very  gay  little  sup- 
per. ' ' 


OWEN  JOHNSON  209 

When  Peters  had  pushed  back  his  chair,  satisfied  as  only  a 
trained  raconteur  can  be  by  the  silence  of  a  difficult  audience, 
and  had  busied  himself  with  a  cigar,  there  was  an  instant 
outcry. 

''I  say,  Peters,  old  boy,  that  is  not  all!" 

''Absolutely." 

"The  story  ends  there?" 

''That  ends  the  story." 

"But  who  took  the  ring?" 

Peters  extended  his  hands  in  an  empty  gesture. 

* '  What !     It  was  never  found  out  ? ' ' 

"Never." 

"No  clue?" 

"None." 

"I  don't  like  the  story,"  said  De  Gollyer. 

"It  's  no  story  at  all,"  said  Steingall. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Quinny  in  a  didactic  way;  "it  is  a  story, 
and  it  is  complete.  In  fact,  I  consider  it  unique  because  it 
has  none  of  the  banalities  of  a  solution  and  leaves  the  prob- 
lem even  more  confused  than  at  the  start." 

"I  don't  see — "  began  Rankin. 

"Of  course  you  don't,  my  dear  man,"  said  Quinny  crush- 
ingly.  "You  do  not  see  that  any  solution  would  be  common- 
place, whereas  no  solution  leaves  an  extraordinary  intellectual 
problem. ' ' 

"How  so?" 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Quinny,  preparing  to  annex  the 
topic,  "whether  the  situation  actually  happened  or  not,  which 
is  in  itself  a  mere  triviality,  Peters  has  constructed  it  in  a 
masterly  way,  the  proof  of  which  is  that  he  has  made  me 
listen.  Observe,  each  person  present  might  have  taken  the 
ring — Flanders,  a  broker,  just  come  a  cropper ;  Maude  Lille,  a 
woman  on  the  ragged  side  of  life  in  desperate  means ;  either 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cheever,  suspected  of  being  card  sharps — very 
good  touch  that,  Peters,  when  the  husband  and  wife  glanced 
involuntarily  at  each  other  at  the  end — Mr.  Enos  Jackson,  a 
sharp  lawyer,  or  his  wife  about  to  be  divorced ;  even  Harris, 
concerning  whom,  very  cleverly,  Peters  has  said  nothing  at 


i  I 


210  ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

all  to  make  him  quite  the  most  suspicious  of  all.  There  are, 
therefore,  seven  solutions,  all  possible  and  all  logical.  But 
beyond  this  is  left  a  great  intellectual  problem." 

''How  so?" 

''Was  it  a  feminine  or  a  masculine  action  to  restore  the 
ring  when  threatened  with  a  search,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Kil- 
dair's  clever  expedient  of  throwing  the  room  into  darkness 
made  detection  impossible?  Was  it  a  woman  who  lacked  the 
necessary  courage  to  continue,  or  was  it  a  man  who  repented 
his  first  impulse  ?  Is  a  man  or  is  a  woman  the  greater  natural 
criminal?" 

A  woman  took  it,  of  course,"  said  Rankin. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  a  man,"  said  Steingall,  "for  the 
second  action  was  more  difficult  than  the  first. ' ' 

"A  man,  certainly,"  said  De  Gollyer.  "The  restoration  of 
the  ring  was  a  logical  decision. ' ' 

"You  see,"  said  Ouinny  triumphant^,  "personally  I  in- 
cline to  a  woman  ^f^v  the  reason  that  a  weaker  feminine  nature 
is  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  domination  of  her  own  sex. 
There  you  are.  We  could  meet  and  debate  the  subject  year 
in  and  year  out  and  never  agree." 

"I  recognize  most  of  the  characters,"  said  De  Gollyer  with 
a  little  confidential  smile  toward  Peters.  "Mrs.  Kildair,  of 
course,  is  all  you  say  of  her — an  extraordinary  woman.  The 
story  is  quite  characteristic  of  her.  Flanders,  I  am  not  sure 
of,  but  I  think  I  know  him. ' ' 

"Did  it  really  happen?"  asked  Rankin,  who  always  took 
the  commonplace  point  of  view. 

Exactly  as  I  have  told  it,"  said  Peters. 
The  only  one  I  don't  recognize  is  Harris,"  said  De  Gollyer 
pensively. 

"Your  humble  servant,"  said  Peters,  smiling. 

The  four  looked  up  suddenly  with  a  little  start. 

"What!"  said  Quinny,  abruptly  confused.  "You — you 
were  there?" 

"I  was  there." 

The  four  continued  to  look  at  him  without  speaking,  each 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  with  a  sudden  ill  ease. 


i 
OWEN  JOHNSON  211  I 


A  club  attendant,  with  a  telephone  slip  on  a  tray,  stopped 
by  Peters'  side.  He  excused  himself  and  went  along  the 
porch,  nodding  from  table  to  table. 

''Curious  chap,"  said  De  Gollyer  musingly. 

"Extraordinary." 

The  word  was  like  a  murmur  in  the  group  of  four,  who 
continued  watching  Peters'  trim,  disappearing  figure  in  si- 
lence, without  looking  at  one  another — with  a  certain  ill  ease. 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION  ^ 

By  0.  HENRY 

A  GUARD  came  to  the  prison  shoe-shop,  where  Jimmy  Valen- 
tine was  assiduously  stitching  uppers,  and  escorted  him  to  the 
front  office.  There  the  warden  handed  Jimmy  his  pardon, 
which  had  been  signed  that  morning  by  the  governor.  Jimmy 
took  it  in  a  tired  kind  of  way.  He  had  served  nearly  ten 
months  of  a  four-year  sentence.  He  had  expected  to  stay 
only  about  three  months,  at  the  longest.  When  a  man  with 
as  many  friends  on  the  outside  as  Jimmy  Valentine  had  is 
received  in  the  ''stir"  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  cut  his  hair. 

"Now,  Valentine,"  said  the  warden,  ''you  '11  go  out  in  the 
morning.  Brace  up,  and  make  a  man  of  yourself.  You  're 
not  a  bad  fellow  at  heart.  Stop  cracking  safes,  and  live 
straight. ' ' 

"Me?"  isaid  Jimmy,  in  surprise.  "Why,  I  never  cracked 
a  safe  in  my  life. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  no, ' '  laughed  the  warden.  * '  Of  course  not.  Let  's 
see,  now.  How  was  it  you  happened  to  get  sent  up  on  that 
Springfield  job?  Was  it  because  you  would  n't  prove  an  alibi 
for  fear  of  compromising  somebody  in  extremely  high-toned 
society  ?  Or  was  it  simply  a  case  of  a  mean  aid  jury  that  had 
it  in  for  you?  It  's  always  one  or  the  other  with  you  inno- 
cent victims. ' ' 

"  Me  ? "  said  Jimmy,  still  blankly  virtuous.  ' '  Why,  A^arden, 
I  never  was  in  Springfield  in  my  life ! ' ' 

"Take  him  back,  Cronin,"  smiled  the  warden,  "and  fix 
him  up  with  outgoing  clothes.  Unlock  him  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  and  let  him  come  to  the  bull-pen.  Better  think  over 
my  advice,  Valentine." 

1  From  Roads  of  Destiny.  Published  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 
Copyright,  1909,  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

212 


O.  HENRY  213 

At  a  quarter  past  seven  on  the  next  morning  Jimmy  stood 
in  the  warden's  outer  office.  He  had  on  a  suit  of  the  villain- 
ously fitting,  ready-made  clothes  and  a  pair  of  the  stiff, 
squeaky  shoes  that  the  state  furnishes  to  its  discharged  com- 
pulsory guests. 

The  clerk  handed  him  a  railroad  ticket  and  the  five-dollar 
bill  with  which  the  law  expected  him  to  rehabilitate  himself 
into  good  citizenship  and  prosperity.  The  warden  gave  him 
a  cigar,  and  shook  hands.  Valentine,  9762,  was  chronicled  on 
the  books  "Pardoned  by  Governor,"  and  Mr.  James  Valen- 
tine walked  out  into  the  sunshine. 

Disregarding  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  waving  green  trees, 
and  the  smell  of  the  flowers,  Jimmy  headed  straight  for  a 
restaurant.  There  he  tasted  the  first  sweet  joys  of  liberty  in 
the  shape  of  a  broiled  chicken  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine — 
followed  by  a  cigar  a  grade  better  than  the  one  the  warden 
had  given  him.  From  there  he  proceeded  leisurely  to  the 
depot.  He  tossed  a  quarter  into  the  hat  of  a  blind  man  sit- 
ting by  the  door,  and  boarded  his  train.  Three  hours  set  him 
down  in  a  little  town  near  the  state  line.  He  went  to  the 
cafe  of  one  Mike  Dolan  and  shook  hands  with  Mike,  who 
was  alone  behind  the  bar. 

"Sorry  we  couldn't  make  it  sooner,  Jimmy,  me  boy,''  said 
Mike.  "But  we  had  that  protest  from  Springfield  to  buck 
against,  and  the  governor  nearly  balked.     Feeling  all  right  ? ' ' 

"Fine,"  said  Jimmy.     "Got  my  key?" 

He  got  his  key  and  went  up-stairs,  unlocking  the  door  of 
a  room  at  the  rear.  Everything  was  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
There  on  the  floor  was  still  Ben  Price 's  collar-button  that  had 
been  torn  from  that  eminent  detective's  shirt-band  when  they 
had  overpowered  Jimmy  to  arrest  him. 

Pulling  out  from  the  wall  a  folding-bed,  Jimmy  slid  back 
a  panel  in  the  wall  and  dragged  out  a  dust-covered  suit-case. 
He  opened  this  and  gazed  fondly  at  the  finest  set  of  burglar's 
tools  in  the  East.  It  was  a  complete  set,  made  of  specially 
tempered  steel,  the  latest  design  in  drills,  punches,  braces 
and  bits,  jimmies,  clamps,  and  augers,  with  two  or  three 
novelties,  invented  by  Jimmy  himself,  in  which  he  took  pride. 


( ( 


214  A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

Over  nine  hundred  dollars  they  had  cost  him  to  have  made 
at ,  a  place  where  they  make  such  things  for  the  profes- 
sion. 

In  half  an  hour  Jimmy  went  down  stairs  and  through  the 
cafe.  He  was  now  dressed  in  tasteful  and  well-fitting  clothes, 
and  carried  his  dusted  and  cleaned  suit-case  in  his  hand. 
Got  anything  on?"  asked  Mike  Dolan,  genially. 
Me?"  said  Jimmy,  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "I  don't  under- 
stand. I  'm  representing  the  New  York  Amalgamated  Short 
Snap  Biscuit  Cracker  and  Frazzled  Wheat  Company. ' ' 

This  statement  delighted  Mike  to  such  an  extent  that  Jimmy 
had  to  take  a  seltzer-and-milk  on  the  spot.  He  never  touched 
"hard"  drinks. 

A  week  after  the  release  of  Valentine,  9762,  there  was  a 
neat  job  of  safe-burglary  done  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  with 
no  clue  to  the  author.  A  scant  eight  hundred  dollars  was 
all  that  was  secured.  Two  weeks  after  that  a  patented,  im- 
proved, burglar-proof  safe  in  Logansport  was  opened  like 
a  cheese  to  the  tune  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  currency;  se- 
curities and  silver  untouched.  That  began  to  interest  the 
rogue-catchers.  Then  an  old-fashioned  bank-safe  in  Jefferson 
City  became  active  and  threw  out  of  its  crater  an  eruption 
of  bank-notes  amounting  to  five  thousand  dollars.  The  losses 
were  now  high  enough  to  bring  the  matter  up  into  Ben  Price's 
class  of  work.  By  comparing  notes,  a  remarkable  similarity 
in  the  methods  of  the  burglaries  was  noticed.  Ben  Price  in- 
vestigated the  scenes  of  the  robberies,  and  was  heard  to  re- 
mark : 

**That  's  Dandy  Jim  Valentine's  autograph.  He  's  resumed 
business.  Look  at  that  combination  knob — jerked  out  as  easy 
as  pulling  up  a  radish  in  wet  weather.  He  's  got  the  only 
.clamps  that  can  do  it.  And  look  how  clean  those  tumblers 
were  punched  out!  Jimmy  never  has  to  drill  but  one  hole. 
Yes,  I  guess  I  want  Mr.  Valentine.  He  '11  do  his  bit  next 
time  without  any  short-time  or  clemency  foolishness." 

Ben  Price  knew  Jimmy's  habits.  He  had  learned  them 
while  working  up  the  Springfield  case.  Long  jumps,  quick 
get-aways,  no  confederates,  and  a  taste  for  good  society — 


0.  HENRY  215 

these  ways  had  helped  Mr.  Valentine  to  become  noted  as  a 
successful  dodger  of  retribution.  It  was  given  out  that  Ben 
Price  had  taken  up  the  trail  of  the  elusive  cracksman,  and 
other  people  with  burglar-proof  safes  felt  more  at  ease. 

One  afternoon  Jimmy  Valentine  and  his  suit-case  climbed 
out  of  the  mail-hack  in  Elmore,  a  little  town  five  miles  off  the 
railroad  dowTi  in  the  black-jack  country  of  Arkansas.  Jimmy, 
looking  like  an  athletic  young  senior  just  home  from  college, 
went  down  the  board  side-walk  toward  the  hotel. 

A  young  lady  crossed  the  street,  passed  him  at  the  corner 
and  entered  a  door  over  which  was  the  sign  ''The  Elmore 
Bank."  Jimmy  Valentine  looked  into  her  eyes,  forgot  what 
he  was,  and  became  another  man.  She  lowered  her  eyes  and 
colored  slightly.  Young  men  of  Jimmy's  style  and  looks 
were  scarce  in  Elmore. 

Jimmy  collared  a  boy  that  was  loafing  on  the  steps  of  the 
bank  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  stockholders,  and  began  to 
question  him  about  the  town,  feeding  him  dimes  at  intervals. 
By  and  by  the  young  lady  came  out,  looking  royally  uncon- 
scious of  the  young  man  with  the  suit-case,  and  went  her 
way. 

"Isn't  that  young  lady  Miss  Polly  Simpson?"  asked 
Jimmy,  with  specious  guile. 

*'Naw,"  said  the  boy.  "She  's  Annabel  Adams.  Her  pa 
owns  this  bank.  What  'd  you  come  to  Elmore  for?  Ts  that 
a  gold  watch-chain?  I  'm  going  to  get  a  bulldog.  Got  any 
more  dimes?" 

Jimmy  went  to  the  Planters'  Hotel,  registered  as  Ralph 
D,  Spencer,  and  engaged  a  room.  He  leaned  on  the  desk  and 
declared  his  platform  to  the  clerk.  He  said  he  had  come  to 
Elmore  to  look  for  a  location  to  go  into  business.  How  was 
the  shoe  business,  now,  in  the  town?  He  had  thought  of  the 
shoe  business.     Was  there  an  opening? 

The  clerk  was  impressed  by  the  clothes  and  manner  of 
Jimmy.  He,  himself,  was  something  of  a  pattern  of  fashion 
to  the  thinly  gilded  youth  of  Elmore,  but  he  now  perceived 
his  shortcomings.  While  trying  to  figure  out  Jimmy's  man- 
ner of  tying  his  four-in-hand  he  cordially  gave  information. 


216  A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

Yes,  there  ought  to  be  a  good  opening  in  the  shoe  line. 
There  wasn't  an  exclusive  shoe-store  in  the  place.  The  dry- 
goods  and  general  stores  handled  them.  Business  in  all  lines 
was  fairly  good.  Hoped  Mr.  Spencer  would  decide  to  locate 
in  Elmore.  He  would  find  it  a  pleasant  town  to  live  in,  and 
the  people  very  sociable. 

Mr.  Spencer  thought  he  would  stop  over  in  the  town  a  few 
days  and  look  over  the  situation.  No,  the  clerk  need  n  't  call 
the  boy.  He  would  carry  up  his  suit-case,  himself;  it  was 
rather  heavy. 

Mr.  Ralph  Spencer,  the  phcenix  that  arose  from  Jimmy  Val- 
entine's  ashes — ashes  left  by  the  flame  of  a  sudden  and  altera- 
tive attack  of  love — remained  in  Elmore,  and  prospered.  He 
opened  a  shoe-store  and  secured  a  good  run  of  trade. 

Socially  he  was  also  a  success,  and  made  many  friends. 
And  he  accomplished  the  wish  of  his  heart.  He  met  Miss 
Annabel  Adams,  and  became  more  and  more  captivated  by 
her  charms. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  the  situation  of  Mr.  Ralph  Spencer  was 
this :  he  had  won  the  respect  of  the  community,  his  shoe-store 
was  flourishing,  and  he  and  Annabel  were  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried in  two  weeks.  Mr.  Adams,  the  typical,  plodding,  country 
banker,  approved  of  Spencer.  Annabel's  pride  in  him  almost 
equalled  her  affection.  He  was  as  much  at  home  in  the  family 
of  Mr.  Adams  and  that  of  Annabel's  married  sister  as  if  he 
were  already  a  member. 

One  day  Jimmy  sat  down  in  his  room  and  wrote  this  letter, 
which  he  mailed  to  the  safe  address  of  one  of  his  old  friends 
in  St.  Louis : 

Dear  Old  Pal: 

I  want  you  to  be  at  SulHvan's  place,  in  Little  Rock,  next  Wednes- 
day night,  at  nine  o'clock.  I  want  you  to  wind  up  some  little  mat- 
ters for  me.  And,  also,  I  want  to  make  you  a  present  of  my  kit  of 
tools.  I  know  you  '11  be  glad  to  get  them — you  could  n't  dupUeate 
the  lot  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Say,  Billy,  I  've  quit  the  old  business 
— a  year  ago.  I  've  got  a  nice  store.  I  'm  making  an  honest  hving, 
and  I  'm  going  to  marry  the  finest  girl  on  earth  two  weeks  from  now. 
It 's  the  only  life,  Billy— the  straight  one.  I  would  n't  touch  a  dollar 
of  another  man's  money  now  for  a  million.     After  I  get  married 


0.  HENRY  217 

I  'm  going  to  sell  out  and  go  West,  where  there  won't  be  so  much 
danger  of  having  old  scores  brought  up  against  me.  I  tell  you, 
Billy,  she  's  an  angel.  She  believes  in  me ;  and  I  would  n't  do  an- 
other crooked  thing  for  the  whole  world.  Be  sure  to  be  at  Sully's, 
for  I  must  see  you.     I'll  bring  the  tools  with  me. 

Your  old  friend, 

Jimmy. 

On  the  Monday  night  after  Jimmy  wrote  this  letter,  Ben 
Price  jogged  unobtrusively  into  Elmore  in  a  livery  buggy. 
He  lounged  about  tov^n  in  his  quiet  way  until  he  found  out 
what  he  wanted  to  know.  From  the  drug-store  across  the 
street  from  Spencer's  shoe-store  he  got  a  good  look  at  Ralph 
D.  Spencer. 

"Going  to  marry  the  banker's  daughter  are  you,  Jimmy?" 
said  Ben  to  himself,  softly.     "Well,  I  don't  know !" 

The  next  morning  Jimmy  took  breakfast  at  the  Adamses. 
He  was  going  to  Little  Rock  that  day  to  order  his  wedding- 
suit  and  buy  something  nice  for  Annabel.  That  would  be  the 
first  time  he  had  left  town  since  he  came  to  Elmore.  It  had 
been  more  than  a  year  now  since  those  last  professional 
"jobs,"  and  he  thought  he  could  safely  venture  out. 

After  breakfast  quite  a  family  party  went  downtown 
together — Mr.  Adams,  Annabel,  Jimmy,  and  Annabel's  mar- 
ried sister  with  her  two  little  girls,  aged  five  and  nine.  They 
came  by  the  hotel  where  Jimmy  still  boarded,  and  he  ran  up 
to  his  room  and  brought  along  his  suit-case.  Then  they  went 
on  to  the  bank.  There  stood  Jimmy's  horse  and  buggy  and 
Dolph  Gibson,  who  was  going  to  drive  him  over  to  the  railroad 
station. 

All  went  inside  the  high,  carved  oak  railings  into  the 
banking-room — Jimmy  included,  for  Mr.  Adams 's  future  son- 
in-law  was  welcome  anywhere.  The  clerks  were  pleased  to 
be  greeted  by  the  good-looking,  agreeable  young  man  who  was 
going  to  marry  Miss  Annabel.  Jimmy  set  his  suit-case  down. 
Annabel,  whose  heart  was  bubbling  with  lively  youth,  put  on 
Jimmy's  hat,  and  picked  up  the  suit-case.  "Would  n't  I  make 
a  nice  drummer?"  said  Annabel.  "My!  Ralph,  how  heavy  it 
is?    Feels  like  it  was  full  of  gold  bricks." 


218  A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

*'Lot  of  nickel-plated  shoe-horns  in  there,"  said  Jimmy, 
coolly,  "that  I  'm  going  to  return.  Thought  I  'd  save  ex- 
press charges  by  taking  them  up.  I  'm  getting  awfully 
economical. ' ' 

The  Elmore  Bank  had  just  put  in  a  new  safe  and  vault. 
Mr.  Adams  was  very  proud  of  it,  and  insisted  on  an  inspection 
by  every  one.  The  vault  was  a  small  one,  but  it  had  a  new, 
patented  door.  It  fastened  with  three  solid  steel  bolts  thrown 
simultaneously  with  a  single  handle,  and  had  a  time-lock. 
Mr.  Adams  beamingly  explained  its  workings  to  Mr.  Spencer, 
who  showed  a  courteous  but  not  too  intelligent  interest.  The 
two  children.  May  and  Agatha,  were  delighted  by  the  shining 
metal  and  funny  clock  and  knobs. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  Ben  Price  sauntered  in  and 
leaned  on  his  elbow,  looking  casually  inside  between  the  rail- 
ings. He  told  the  teller  that  he  did  n't  want  anything ;  he  was 
just  waiting  for  a  man  he  knew. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  scream  or  two  from  the  women,  and  a 
commotion.  Unperceived  by  the  elders.  May,  the  nine-year- 
old  girl,  in  a  spirit  of  play,  had  shut  Agatha  in  the  vault.  She 
had  then  shot  the  bolts  and  turned  the  knob  of  the  combination 
as  she  had  seen  Mr.  Adams  do. 

The  old  banker  sprang  to  the  handle  and  tugged  at  it  for  a 
moment.  ''The  door  can't  be  opened,"  he  groaned.  "The 
clock  hasn't  been  wound  nor  the  combination  set." 

Agatha's  mother  screamed  again,  hysterically. 

"Hush!"  said  Mr.  Adams,  raising  his  trembling  hand. 
"All  be  quiet  for  a  moment.  Agatha !"  he  called  as  loudly  as 
he  could.  "Listen  to  me."  During  the  following  silence 
they  could  just  hear  the  faint  sound  of  the  child  wildly 
shrieking  in  the  dark  vault  in  a  panic  of  terror. 

"My  precious  darling!"  wailed  the  mother.  "She  will  die 
of  fright!  Open  the  door!  Oh,  break  it  open!  Can't  you 
men  do  something?" 

' '  There  is  n  't  a  man  nearer  than  Little  Rock  who  can  open 
that  door,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  in  a  shaky  voice.  "My  God! 
Spencer,  what  shall  we  do?    That  child — she  can't  stand  it 


0.  HENRY  219 

long  in  there.     There  is  n  't  enough  air,  and,  besides,  she  '11 
go  into  convulsions  from  fright." 

Agatha's  mother,  frantic  now,  beat  the  door  of  the  vault 
with  her  hands.  Somebody  wildly  suggested  dynamite.  An- 
nabel turned  to  Jimmy,  her  large  eyes  full  of  anguish,  but  not 
yet  despairing.  To  a  woman  nothing  seems  quite  impossible 
to  the  powers  of  the  man  she  worships. 

''Can't  you  do  something,  Ralph — try,  won't  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  queer,  soft  smile  on  his  lips  and  in 
his  keen  eyes. 

"Annabel,"  he  said,  "give  me  that  rose  you  are  wearing, 
will  you  ? " 

Hardly  believing  that  she  heard  him  aright,  she  unpinned 
the  bud  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  placed  it  in  his 
hand.  Jimmy  stuffed  it  into  his  vest-pocket,  threw  off  his 
coat  and  pulled  up  his  shirt-sleeves.  With  that  act  Ralph 
D.  Spencer  passed  away  and  Jimmy  Valentine  took  his 
place. 

"Get  away  from  the  door,  all  of  you,"  he  commanded, 
shortly. 

He  set  his  suit-case  on  the  table,  and  opened  it  out  flat. 
From  that  time  on  he  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  the  pres- 
ence of  any  one  else.  He  laid  out  the  shining,  queer  imple- 
ments swiftly  and  orderly,  whistling  softly  to  himself  as  he 
always  did  when  at  work.  In  a  deep  silence  and  immovable, 
the  others  watched  him  as  if  under  a  spell. 

In  a  minute  Jimmy's  pet  drill  was  biting  smoothly  into  the 
steel  door.  In  ten  minutes — breaking  his  own  burglarious 
record — he  threw  back  the  bolts  and  opened  the  door. 

Agatha,  almost  collapsed,  but  safe,  was  gathered  into  her 
mother's  arms. 

Jimmy  Valentine  put  on  his  coat,  and  walked  outside  the 
railings  toward  the  front  door.  As  he  went  he  thought  he 
heard  a  far-away  voice  that  he  once  knew  call  "Ralph!" 
But  he  never  hesitated. 

At  the  door  a  big  man  stood  somewhat  in  his  way. 
Hello,  Ben!"  said  Jimmy,  still  with  his  strange  smile 


i  I 


220  A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

''Got  around  at  last,  have  you?  Well,  let 's  go.  I  don*t 
know  that  it  makes  much  difference,  now. ' ' 

And  then  Ben  Price  acted  rather  strangely. 

''Guess  you  're  mistaken,  Mr.  Spencer/'  he  said.  "Don't 
believe  I  recognize  you.  You  're  buggy  's  waiting  for  you, 
ain't  it?" 

And  Ben  Price  turned  and  strolled  down  the  street. 


BROTHER  LEO 

By  PHYLLIS  BOTTOME 

It  was  a  sunny  morning,  and  I  was  on  my  way  to  Torcello. 
Venice  lay  behind  us  a  dazzling  line,  with  towers  of  gold 
against  the  blue  lagoon.  All  at  once  a  breeze  sprang  up  from 
the  sea ;  the  small,  feathery  islands  seemed  to  shake  and  quiver, 
and,  like  leaves  driven  before  a  gale,  those  flocks  of  colored 
butterflies,  the  fishing-boats,  ran  in  before  the  storm.  Far 
away  to  our  left  stood  the  ancient  tower  of  Altinum,  with  the 
island  of  Burano  a  bright  pink  beneath  the  towering  clouds. 
To  our  right,  and  much  nearer,  was  a  small  cypress-covered 
islet.  One  large  umbrella-pine  hung  close  to  the  sea,  and 
behind  it  rose  the  tower  of  the  convent  church.  The  two 
gondoliers  consulted  together  in  hoarse  cries  and  decided  to 
make  for  it. 

''It  is  San  Francesco  del  Deserto,"  the  elder  explained  to 
me.  ''It  belongs  to  the  little  brown  brothers,  who  take  no 
money  and  are  very  kind.  One  would  hardly  believe  these 
ones  had  any  religion,  they  are  such  a  simple  people,  and  they 
live  on  fish  and  the  vegetables  they  grow  in  their  garden." 

We  fought  the  crooked  little  waves  in  silence  after  that; 
only  the  high  prow  rebelled  openly  against  its  sudden  twistings 
and  turnings.  The  arrowy-shaped  gondola  is  not  a  structure 
made  for  the  rough  jostling  of  waves,  and  the  gondoliers  put 
forth  all  their  strength  and  skill  to  reach  the  tiny  haven 
under  the  convent  wall.  As  we  did  so,  the  black  bars  of 
cloud  rushed  down  upon  us  in  a  perfect  deluge  of  rain,  and 
we  ran  speechless  and  half  drowned  across  the  tossed  field  of 
grass  and  forget-me-nots  to  the  convent  door.  A  shivering 
beggar  sprang  up  from  nowhere  and  insisted  on  ringing  the 
bell  for  us. 

The  door  opened,  and  I  saw  before  me  a  young  brown 

221 


222  BEOTHER  LEO 

brother  with  the  merriest  eyes  I  have  ever  seen.  They  were 
unshadowed,  like  a  child's,  dancing  and  eager,  and  yet  there 
was  a  strange  gentleness  and  patience  about  him,  too,  as  if 
there  was  no  hurry  even  about  his  eagerness. 

He  was  very  poorly  dressed  and  looked  thin.  I  think  he 
was  charmed  to  see  us,  though  a  little  shy,  like  a  hospitable 
country  hostess  anxious  to  give  pleasure,  but  afraid  that  she 
has  not  much  to  offer  citizens  of  a  larger  world. 

''What  a  tempest!"  he  exclaimed.  ''You  have  come  at  a 
good  hour.  Enter,  enter,  Signore !  And  your  men,  will  they 
not  come  in?" 

We  found  ourselves  in  a  very  small  rose-red  cloister;  in 
the  middle  of  it  was  an  old  well  under  the  open  sky,  but  above 
us  was  a  sheltering  roof  spanned  by  slender  arches.  The 
young  monk  hesitated  for  a  moment,  smiling  from  me  to  the 
two  gondoliers.  I  think  it  occurred  to  him  that  we  should  like 
different  entertainment,  for  he  said  at  last: 

"You  men  would  perhaps  like  to  sit  in  the  porter's  lodge  for 
a  while  ?  Our  Brother  Lorenzo  is  there ;  he  is  our  chief  fisher- 
man, with  a  great  knowledge  of  the  lagoons;  and  he  could 
light  a  fire  for  you  to  dry  yourselves  by — Signori.  And  you, 
if  I  mistake  not,  are  English,  are  you  not,  Signore?  It  is 
probable  that  you  would  like  to  see  our  chapel.  It  is  not 
much.  We  are  very  proud  of  it,  but  that,  you  know,  is 
because  it  was  founded  by  our  blessed  father.  Saint  Francis. 
He  believed  in  poverty,  and  we  also  believe  in  it,  but  it  does 
not  give  much  for  people  to  see.  That  is  a  misfortune,  to 
come  all  this  way  and  to  see  nothing."  Brother  Leo  looked 
at  me  a  little  wistfully.  I  think  he  feared  that  I  should  be 
disappointed.  Then  he  passed  before  me  with  swift,  eager 
feet  toward  the  little  chaj)el. 

It  was  a  very  little  chapel  and  quite  bare ;  behind  the  altar 
some  monks  were  chanting  an  office.  It  was  clean,  and  there 
were  no  pictures  or  images,  only,  as  I  knelt  there,  I  felt  as  if 
the  little  island  in  its  desert  of  waters  had  indeed  secreted  some 
vast  treasure,  and  as  if  the  chapel,  empty  as  it  had  seemed  at 
first,  was  full  of  invisible  possessions.  As  for  Brother  Leo,  he 
had  stood  beside  me  nervously  for  a  moment;  but  on  seeing 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  223 

that  I  was  prepared  to  kneel,  he  started,  like  a  bird  set  free, 
toward  the  altar  steps,  where  his  lithe  young  impetuosity 
sank  into  sudden  peace.  He  knelt  there  so  still,  so  rapt,  so 
incased  in  his  listening  silence,  that  he  might  have  been  part 
of  the  stone  pavement.  Yet  his  earthly  senses  were  alive,  for 
the  moment  I  rose  he  was  at  my  side  again,  as  patient  and 
courteous  as  ever,  though  I  felt  as  if  his  inner  ear  were  listen- 
ing still  to  some  unheard  melody. 

We  stood  again  in  the  pink  cloister.  *' There  is  little  to 
see,^'  he  repeated.  "We  are  poverelli;  it  has  been  like  this 
for  seven  hundred  years."  He  smiled  as  if  that  age-long, 
simple  service  of  poverty  were  a  light  matter,  an  excuse, 
perhaps,  in  the  eyes  of  the  citizen  of  a  larger  world  for  their 
having  nothing  to  show.  Only  the  citizen,  as  he  looked  at 
Brother  Leo,  had  a  sudden  doubt  as  to  the  size  of  the  world 
outside.  Was  it  as  large,  half  as  large,  even,  as  the  eager 
young  heart  beside  him  which  had  chosen  poverty  as  a  bride  ? 

The  rain  fell  monotonously  against  the  stones  of  the  tiny 
cloister. 

"What  a  tempest!"  said  Brother  Leo,  smiling  contentedly 
at  the  sky.  "You  must  come  in  and  see  our  father.  I  sent 
word  by  the  porter  of  your  arrival,  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
receive  you;  that  will  be  a  pleasure  for  him,  for  he  is  of  the 
great  world,  too.  A  very  learned  man,  our  father;  he  knows 
the  French  and  the  English  tongue.  Once  he  went  to  Rome ; 
also  he  has  been  several  times  to  Venice.  He  has  been  a  great 
traveler." 

"And  you,"  I  asked — "have  you  also  traveled?" 

Brother  Leo  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  sometimes  looked  at  Venice,"  he  said,  "across  the 
water,  and  once  I  went  to  Burano  with  the  marketing  brother; 
otherwise,  no,  I  have  not  traveled.  But  being  a  guest-brother, 
you  see,  I  meet  often  with  those  who  have,  like  your  Excel- 
lency, for  instance,  and  that  is  a  great  education." 

We  reached  the  door  of  the  monastery,  and  I  felt  sorry 
when  another  brother  opened  to  us,  and  Brother  Leo,  with  the 
most  cordial  of  farewell  smiles,  turned  back  across  the  cloister 
to  the  chapel  door. 


224  BROTHER  LEO 

**Even  if  he  does  not  hurry,  he  will  still  find  prayer  there/' 
said  a  quiet  voice  beside  me. 

I  turned  to  look  at  the  speaker.  He  was  a  tall  old  man 
with  white  hair  and  eyes  like  small  blue  flowers,  very  bright 
and  innocent,  with  the  same  look  of  almost  superb  contentment 
in  them  that  I  had  seen  in  Brother  Leo's  eyes. 

"But  what  will  you  have?"  he  added  with  a  twinkle. 
"The  young  are  always  afraid  of  losing  time;  it  is,  perhaps, 
because  they  have  so  much.  But  enter,  Signore !  If  you  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  excuse  the  refectory,  it  will  give  me  much 
pleasure  to  bring  you  a  little  refreshment.  You  will  pardon 
that  we  have  not  much  to  offer  ? ' ' 

The  father — for  I  found  out  afterward  that  he  was  the  su- 
perior himself — brought  me  bread  and  wine,  made  in  the  con- 
vent, and  waited  on  me  with  his  own  hands.  Then  he  sat 
down  on  a  narrow  bench  opposite  to  watch  me  smoke.  I 
offered  him  one  of  my  cigarettes,  but  he  shook  his  head, 
smiling. 

"I  used  to  smoke  once,"  he  said.  "I  was  very  particular 
about  my  tobacco.  I  think  it  was  similar  to  yours — at  least 
the  aroma,  which  I  enjoy  very  much,  reminds  me  of  it.  It  is 
curious,  is  it  not,  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  remembering 
what  we  once  had?  But  perhaps  it  is  not  altogether  a 
pleasure  unless  one  is  glad  that  one  has  not  got  it  now.  Here 
one  is  free  from  things.  I  sometimes  fear  one  may  be  a  little 
indulgent  about  one's  liberty.  Space,  solitude,  and  love — 
it  is  all  very  intoxicating." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  refectory  except  the  two  narrow 
benches  on  which  we  sat,  and  a  long  trestled  board  which 
formed  the  table ;  the  walls  were  white-washed  and  bare,  the 
floor  was  stone.  I  found  out  later  that  the  brothers  ate  and 
drank  nothing  except  bread  and  wine  and  their  own  vegetables 
in  season,  a  little  macaroni  sometimes  in  winter,  and  in  sum- 
mer flgs  out  of  their  own  garden.  They  slept  on  bare  boards, 
with  one  thin  blanket  winter  and  summer  alike.  The  fish  they 
caught  they  sold  at  Burano  or  gave  to  the  poor.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  they  enjoyed  very  great  freedom  from  "things." 

It  was  a  strange  experience  to  meet  a  man  who  never  had 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  225 

heard  of  a  flying-machine  and  who  could  not  understand  why 
it  was  important  to  save  time  by  using  the  telephone  or  the 
wireless-telegraphy  system;  but  despite  the  fact  that  the 
father  seemed  very  little  impressed  by  our  modern  urgencies, 
I  never  have  met  a  more  intelligent  listener  or  one  who  seized 
more  quickly  on  all  that  was  essential  in  an  explanation. 

' '  You  must  not  think  we  do  nothing  at  all,  we  lazy  ones  who 
follow  old  paths,"  he  said  in  answer  to  one  of  my  questions. 
' '  There  are  only  eight  of  us  brothers,  and  there  is  the  garden, 
fishing,  cleaning,  and  praying.  We  are  sent  for,  too,  from 
Burano  to  go  and  talk  a  little  with  the  people  there,  or  from 
some  island  on  the  lagoons  which  perhaps  no  priest  can  reach 
in  the  winter.  It  is  easy  for  us,  with  our  little  boat  and  no 
cares." 

"But  Brother  Leo  told  me  he  had  been  to  Burano  only 
once, ' '  said  the  father,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  he  was  silent, 
and  I  found  his  blue  eyes  on  mine,  as  if  he  were  weighing  me. 

"Brother  Leo,"  said  the  superior  at  last,  "is  our  youngest. 
He  is  very  young,  younger  perhaps  than  his  years;  but  we 
have  brought  him  up  altogether,  you  see.  His  parents  died 
of  cholera  within  a  few  days  of  each  other.  As  there  were  no 
relatives,  we  took  him,  and  when  he  was  seventeen  he  decided 
to  join  our  order.  He  has  always  been  happy  with  us,  but  one 
cannot  say  that  he  has  seen  much  of  the  world."  He  paused 
again,  and  once  more  I  felt  his  blue  eyes  searching  mine. 
' '  Who  knows  ? "  he  said  finally.  * '  Perhaps  you  were  sent  here 
to  help  me.  I  have  prayed  for  two  years  on  the  subject,  and 
that  seems  very  likely.  The  storm  is  increasing,  and  you 
will  not  be  able  to  return  until  to-morrow.  This  evening,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  we  will  speak  more  on  this  matter.  Mean- 
while I  will  show  you  our  spare  room.  Brother  Lorenzo  will 
see  that  you  are  made  as  comfortable  as  we  can  manage.  It 
is  a  great  privilege  for  us  to  have  this  opportunity;  believe 
me,  we  are  not  ungrateful." 

It  would  have  been  of  no  use  to  try  to  explain  to  him  that 
it  was  for  us  to  feel  gratitude.  It  was  apparent  that  none  of 
the  brothers  had  ever  learned  that  important  lesson  of  the 
worldly  respectable — that  duty  is  what  other  people  ought  to 


226  BROTHER  LEO 

do.  They  were  so  busy  thinking  of  their  own  obligations  as 
to  overlook  entirely  the  obligations  of  others.  It  was  not 
that  they  did  not  think  of  others.  I  think  they  thought  only 
of  one  another,  but  they  thought  without  a  shadow  of  judg- 
ment, with  that  bright,  spontaneous  love  of  little  children,  too 
interested  to  point  a  moral.  Indeed,  they  seemed  to  me  very 
like  a  family  of  happy  children  listening  to  a  fairy -story  and 
knowing  that  the  tale  is  true. 

After  supper  the  superior  took  me  to  his  office.  The  rain 
had  ceased,  but  the  wind  howled  and  shrieked  across  the 
lagoons,  and  I  could  hear  the  waves  breaking  heavily  against 
the  island.  There  was  a  candle  on  the  desk,  and  the  tiny, 
shadowy  cell  looked  like  a  picture  by  Rembrandt. 

''The  rain  has  ceased  now,"  the  father  said  quietly,  '*and 
to-morrow  the  waves  will  have  gone  down,  and  you,  Signore, 
will  have  left  us.  It  is  in  your  power  to  do  us  all  a  great 
favor.  I  have  thought  much  whether  I  shall  ask  it  of  you, 
and  even  now  I  hesitate;  but  Scripture  nowhere  tells  us  that 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  was  taken  by  precaution,  nor  do  I 
imagine  that  in  this  world  things  come  oftenest  to  those  who 
refrain  from  asking. 

"All  of  us,"  he  continued,  "have  come  here  after  seeing 
something  of  the  outside  world;  some  of  us  even  had  great 
possessions.  Leo  alone  knows  nothing  of  it,  and  has  possessed 
nothing,  nor  did  he  ever  wish  to ;  he  has  been  willing  that 
nothing  should  be  his  own,  not  a  flower  in  the  garden,  not  any- 
thing but  his  prayers,  and  even  these  I  think  he  has  oftenest 
shared.  But  the  visit  to  Burano  put  an  idea  in  his  head. 
It  is,  perhaps  you  know,  a  factory  town  where  they  make 
lace,  and  the  people  live  there  with  good  wages,  many  of  them, 
but  also  much  poverty.  There  is  a  poverty  which  is  a  grace, 
but  there  is  also  a  poverty  which  is  a  great  misery,  and  this 
Leo  never  had  seen  before.  He  did  not  know  that  poverty 
could  be  a  pain.  It  filled  him  with  a  great  horror,  and  in  his 
heart  there  was  a  certain  rebellion.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in 
a  world  with  so  much  money  no  one  should  suffer  for  the  lack 
of  it. 

It  was  useless  for  me  to  point  out  to  him  that  in  a  world 


<< 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  227 

where  there  is  so  much  health  God  has  permitted  sickness; 
where  there  is  so  much  beauty,  ugliness;  where  there  is  so 
much  holiness,  sin.  It  is  not  that  there  is  any  lack  in  the  gifts 
of  God ;  all  are  there,  and  in  abundance,  but  He  has  left  their 
distribution  to  the  soul  of  man.  It  is  easy  for  me  to  believe 
this.  I  have  known  what  money  can  buy  and  what  it  cannot 
buy;  but  Brother  Leo,  who  never  has  owned  a  penny,  how 
should  he  know  anything  of  the  ways  of  pennies  ? 

''I  saw  that  he  could  not  be  contented  with  my  answer;  and 
then  this  other  idea  came  to  him — the  idea  that  is,  I  think,  the 
blessed  hope  of  youth:  that  this  thing  being  wrong,  he,  Leo, 
must  protest  against  it,  must  resist  it !  Surely,  if  money  can 
do  wonders,  we  who  set  ourselves  to  work  the  will  of  God 
should  have  more  control  of  this  wonder-working  power  ?  He 
fretted  against  his  rule.  He  did  not  permit  himself  to  believe 
that  our  blessed  father.  Saint  Francis,  was  wrong,  but  it  w^as 
a  hardship  for  him  to  refuse  alms  from  our  kindly  visitors. 
He  thought  the  beggars'  rags  would  be  made  whole  by  gold; 
he  wanted  to  give  them  more  than  bread,  he  wanted,  poverino! 
to  buy  happiness  for  the  whole  world. " 

The  father  paused,  and  his  dark,  thought-lined  face  lighted 
up  with  a  sudden,  beautiful  smile  till  every  feature  seemed  as 
young  as  his  eyes. 

*'I  do  not  think  the  human  being  ever  has  lived  who  has  not 
thought  that  he  ought  to  have  happiness,"  he  said.  ^'We 
begin  at  once  to  get  ready  for  heaven ;  but  heaven  is  a  long 
way  off.  We  make  haste  slowly.  It  takes  us  all  our  lives, 
and  perhaps  purgatory,  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  our  own  hearts. 
That  is  the  last  place  in  which  we  look  for  heaven,  but  I  think 
it  is  the  first  in  which  we  shall  find  it." 

' '  But  it  seems  to  me  extraordinary  that,  if  Brother  Leo  has 
this  thing  so  much  on  his  mind,  he  should  look  so  happy,"  I 
exclaimed.     "That  is  the  first  thing  I  noticed  about  him." 

*'Yes,  it  is  not  for  himself  that  he  is  searching,"  said  the 
superior.  ''If  it  w^ere,  I  should  not  wish  him  to  go  out  into 
the  world,  because  I  should  not  expect  him  to  find  anything 
there.  His  heart  is  utterly  at  rest ;  but  though  he  is  person- 
ally happy,  this  thing  troubles  him.     His  prayers  are  eating 


228  BROTHER  LEO 

into  his  soul  like  flame,  and  in  time  this  fire  of  pity  and  sor- 
row will  become  a  serious  menace  to  his  peace.  Besides,  I  see 
in  Leo  a  great  power  of  sympathy  and  understanding.  He  has 
in  him  the  gift  of  ruling  other  souls.  He  is  very  young  to 
rule  his  own  soul,  and  yet  he  rules  it.  When  I  die,  it  is  prob- 
able that  he  will  be  called  to  take  my  place,  and  for  that  it 
is  necessary  he  should  have  seen  clearly  that  our  rule  is 
right.  At  present  he  accepts  it  in  obedience,  but  he  must  have 
more  than  obedience  in  order  to  teach  it  to  others;  he  must 
have  a  personal  light. 

''This,  then,  is  the  favor  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  Signore.  I 
should  like  to  have  you  take  Brother  Leo  to  Venice  to-morrow, 
and,  if  you  have  the  time  at  your  disposal,  I  should  like  you  to 
show  him  the  towers,  the  churches,  the  palaces,  and  the  poor 
who  are  still  so  poor.  I  wish  him  to  see  how  people  spend 
money,  both  the  good  and  the  bad.  I  wish  him  to  see  the 
world.  Perhaps  then  it  will  come  to  him  as  it  came  to  me — 
that  money  is  neither  a  curse  nor  a  blessing  in  itself,  but  only 
one  of  God's  mysteries,  like  the  dust  in  a  sunbeam." 

"I  will  take  him  very  gladly;  but  will  one  day  be  enough?" 
I  answered. 

The  superior  arose  and  smiled  again. 

"Ah,  we  slow  worms  of  earth,"  he  said,  ''are  quick  about 
some  things!  You  have  learned  to  save  time  by  flying- 
machines;  we,  too,  have  certain  methods  of  flight.  Brother 
Leo  learns  all  his  lessons  that  way.  I  hardly  see  him  start 
before  he  arrives.  You  must  not  think  I  am  so  myself.  No, 
no.  I  am  an  old  man  who  has  lived  a  long  life  learning  noth- 
ing, but  I  have  seen  Leo  grow  like  a  flower  in  a  tropic  night.  I 
thank  you,  my  friend,  for  this  great  favor.  I  think  God  will 
reward  you." 

Brother  Lorenzo  took  me  to  my  bedroom ;  he  was  a  talk- 
ative old  man,  very  anxious  for  my  comfort.  He  told  me  that 
there  was  an  office  in  the  chapel  at  two  o'clock,  and  one  at 
five  to  begin  the  day.  but  he  hoped  that  I  should  sleep  through 
them. 

"They  are  all  very  well  for  us,"  he  explained,  "but  for  a 
stranger,  what  cold,  what  disturbance,  and  what  a  difficulty 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  229 

to  arrange  the  right  thoughts  in  the  head  during  chapel! 
Even  for  me  it  is  a  great  temptation.  I  tind  my  mind  run- 
ning on  coffee  in  the  morning,  a  thing  we  have  only  on  great 
feast-days.  I  may  say  that  I  have  fought  this  thought  for 
seven  years,  but  though  a  small  devil,  perhaps,  it  is  a  very 
strong  one.  Now,  if  you  should  heiir  our  bell  in  the  night,  as 
a  favor  pray  that  I  may  not  think  about  coffee.  Such  an  im- 
perfection !  I  say  to  myself,  the  sin  of  Esau !  But  he,  you 
know,  had  some  excuse;  he  had  been  hunting.  Now,  I  ask 
you — one  has  not  much  chance  of  that  on  this  little  island ;  one 
has  only  one's  sins  to  hunt,  and,  alas!  they  don't  run  away  as 
fast  as  one  could  wish  !  I  am  afraid  they  are  tame,  these  ones. 
May  your  Excellency  sleep  like  the  blessed  saints,  only  a  trifle 
longer!" 

I  did  sleep  a  trifle  longer;  indeed,  I  was  quite  unable  to 
assist  Brother  Lorenzo  to  resist  his  coffee  devil  during  chapel- 
time.  I  did  not  wake  till  my  tiny  cell  was  flooded  with  sun- 
shine and  full  of  the  sound  of  St.  Francis's  birds.  Through 
my  window  I  could  see  the  fishing-boats  pass  by.  First  came 
one  with  a  pair  of  lemon-yellow  sails,  like  floating  primroses ; 
then  a  boat  as  scarlet  as  a  dancing  flame,  and  half  a  dozen 
others  painted  some  with  jokes  and  some  with  incidents  in 
the  lives  of  patron  saints,  all  gliding  out  over  the  blue  lagoon 
to  meet  the  golden  day. 

I  rose,  and  from  my  window  I  saw  Brother  Leo  in  the  gar- 
den. He  was  standing  under  St.  Francis's  tree — the  old 
gnarled  umbrella-pine  which  hung  over  the  convent-wall  above 
the  water  by  the  island's  edge.  His  back  was  toward  me, 
and  he  was  looking  out  over  the  blue  stretch  of  lagoon  into 
the  distance,  where  Venice  lay  like  a  moving  cloud  at  the 
horizon's  edge;  but  a  mist  hid  her  from  his  eyes,  and  while  I 
watched  him  he  turned  back  to  the  garden-bed  and  began  pull- 
ing out  weeds.  The  gondoliers  were  already  at  the  tiny  pier 
when  I  came  out. 

*'Per  Bacco,  Signore!"  the  elder  explained.  '*Let  us 
hasten  back  to  Venice  and  make  up  for  the  Lent  we  have  had 
here.  The  brothers  gave  us  all  they  had,  the  holy  ones — a 
little  wine,  a  little  bread,  cheese  that  couldn't  fatten  one's 


230  BROIHER  LEO 

grandmother,  and  no  macaroni — not  so  much  as  would  go 
round  a  baby's  tongue!  For  my  part,  I  shall  wait  till  I  get 
to  heaven  to  fast,  and  pay  some  attention  to  my  stomach  while 
I  have  one."  And  he  spat  on  his  hands  and  looked  toward 
Venice. 

*'And  not  an  image  in  the  chapel!"  agreed  the  younger 
man.  *'Why,  there  is  nothing  to  pray  to  but  the  Signore  Dio 
Himself!  Veramente,  Signore,  you  are  a  witness  that  I 
speak  nothing  but  the  truth." 

The  father  superior  and  Leo  appeared  at  this  moment  down 
the  path  between  the  cypresses.  The  father  gave  me  thanks 
and  spoke  in  a  friendly  way  to  the  gondoliers,  who  for  their 
part  expressed  a  very  pretty  gratitude  in  their  broad  Venetian 
patois,  one  of  them  saying  that  the  hospitality  of  the  monks 
had  been  like  paradise  itself,  and  the  other  hasting  to  agree 
with  him. 

The  two  monks  did  not  speak  to  each  other,  but  as  the  gon- 
dolier turned  the  huge  prow  toward  Venice,  a  long  look  passed 
between  them — such  a  look  as  a  father  and  son  might  exchange 
if  the  son  were  going  out  to  war,  while  his  father,  remember- 
ing old  campaigns,  was  yet  bound  to  stay  at  home. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  in  early  June;  the  last  traces  of  the 
storm  had  vanished  from  the  serene,  still  waters;  a  vague 
curtain  of  heat  and  mist  hung  and  shimmered  between  our- 
selves and  Venice ;  far  away  lay  the  little  islands  in  the  lagoon, 
growing  out  of  the  water  like  strange  sea-flowers.  Behind  us 
stood  San  Francesco  del  Deserto,  with  long  reflections  of  its 
one  pink  tower  and  arrowy,  straight  cypresses,  soft  under  the 
blue  water. 

The  father  superior  walked  slowly  back  to  the  convent,  his 
brown-clad  figure  a  shining  shadow  between  the  two  black  rows 
of  cypresses.  Brother  Leo  waited  till  he  had  disappeared, 
then  turned  his  eager  eyes  toward  Venice. 

As  we  approached  the  city  the  milky  sea  of  mist  retreated, 
and  her  towers  sprang  up  to  greet  us.  I  saw  a  look  in  Brother 
Leo's  eyes  that  was  not  fear  or  wholly  pleasure;  yet  there 
was  in  it  a  certain  awe  and  a  strange,  tentative  joy,  as  if 


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PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  231 

something  in  him  stretched  out  to  greet  the  world.     He  mut- 
tered half  to  himself: 

''What  a  great  world,  and  how  many  children  il  Signore 

Bio  has ! " 

When  we  reached  the  piazzetta,  and  he  looked  up  at  the 
amazing  splendor  of  the  ducal  palace,  that  building  of  soft 
yellow,  with  its  pointed  arches  and  double  loggias  of  white 
marble,  he  spread  out  both  hands  in  an  ecstasy. 

''But  what  a  miracle !"  he  cried.  "What  a  joy  to  God  .and 
to  His  angels !  How  I  wish  my  brothers  could  see  this !  Do 
you  not  imagine  that  some  good  man  was  taken  to  paradise  to 
see  this  great  building  and  brought  back  here  to  copy  it?" 

"Chi  lo  saV  I  replied  guardedly,  and  we  landed  by  the 
column  of  the  Lion  of  St.  i\Iark's.  That  noble  beast,  astride 
on  his  pedestal,  with  wings  outstretched,  delighted  the  young 
monk,  who  walked  round  and  round  him. 

"What  a  tribute  to  the  saint!"  he  exclaimed.  "Look,  they 
have  his  wings,  too.     Is  not  that  faith?" 

"Come,"  I  said,  "let  us  go  on  to  Saint  Mark's.  I  think 
you  would  like  to  go  there  first;  it  is  the  right  way  to  begin 
our  pilgrimage." 

The  piazza  was  not  very  full  at  that  hour  of  the  morning, 
and  its  emptiness  increased  the  feeling  of  space  and  size. 
The  pigeons  wheeled  and  circled  to  and  fro,  a  dazzle  of  soft 
plumage,  and  the  cluster  of  golden  domes  and  sparkling 
minarets  glittered  in  the  sunshine  like  flames.  Every  image 
and  statue  on  St.  Mark's  wavered  in  great  lines  of  light  like 
a  living  pageant  in  a  sea  of  gold. 

Brother  Leo  said  nothing  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  three 
great  doorways  that  lead  into  the  church.  He  stood  quite 
still  for  a  while,  and  then  his  eyes  fell  on  a  beggar  beside  the 
pink  and  cream  of  the  new  campanile,  and  I  saw  the  wistful- 
ness  in  his  eyes  suddenly  grow  as  deep  as  pain. 

"Have  you  money,  Signore?"  he  asked  me.  That  seemed 
to  him  the  only  question.  I  gave  the  man  something,  but  I 
explained  to  Brother  Leo  that  he  was  probably  not  so  poor  as 
he  looked. 


232  BROTHER  LEO 

"They  live  in  rags,"  I  explained,  '^because  they  wish  to 
arouse  pity.     Many  of  them  need  not  beg  at  all. ' ' 

"Is  it  possible?"  asked  Brother  Leo,  gravely;  then  he  fol- 
lowed me  under  the  brilliant  doorways  of  mosaic  which  lead 
into  the  richer  dimness  of  St.  Mark's. 

When  he  found  himself  within  that  great  incrusted  jewel, 
he  fell  on  his  knees.  I  think  he  hardly  saw  the  golden  roof, 
the  jeweled  walls,  and  the  five  lifted  domes  full  of  sunshine 
and  old  gold,  or  the  dark  altars,  with  their  mysterious,  rich 
shimmering.  All  these  seemed  to  pass  away  beyond  the  sense 
of  sight;  even  I  felt  somehow  as  if  those  great  walls  of  St. 
Mark's  were  not  so  great  as  I  had  fancied.  Something 
greater  was  kneeling  there  in  an  old  habit  and  with  bare  feet, 
half  broken-hearted  because  a  beggar  had  lied. 

I  found  myself  regretting  the  responsibility  laid  on  my 
shoulders.  "Why  should  I  have  been  compelled  to  take  this 
strangely  innocent,  sheltered  boy,  with  his  fantastic  third- 
century  ideals,  out  into  the  shoddy,  decorative,  unhappy 
world?  I  even  felt  a  kind  of  anger  at  the  simplicity  of  his 
soul.  I  wished  he  were  more  like  other  people;  T  suppose 
because  he  had  made  me  wish  for  a  moment  that  I  was  less 
like  them. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Saint  Mark's?"  I  asked  him  as  we 
stood  once  more  in  the  hot  sunshine  outside,  with  the  strutting 
pigeons  at  our  feet  and  wheeling  over  our  heads. 

Brother  Leo  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"I  think  Saint  Mark  would  feel  it  a  little  strange.  You 
see,  I  do  not  think  he  was  a  great  man  in  the  world,  and  the 
great  in  paradise — "  He  stooped  and  lifted  a  pigeon  with  a 
broken  foot  nearer  to  some  corn  a  passer-by  was  throwing  for 
the  birds.  "I  cannot  think,"  he  finished  gravely,  "that  they 
care  very  much  for  palaces  in  paradise ;  I  should  think  every 
one  had  them  there  or  else — nobody." 

I  was  surprised  to  see  the  pigeons  that  wheeled  away  at 
my  approach  allow  the  monk  to  handle  them,  but  they  seemed 
unaware  of  his  touch. 

**Poverino!'^  he  said  to  the  one  with  the  broken  foot. 
"Thank  God  that  He  has  given  you  wings' 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOME  233 

Brother  Leo  spoke  to  every  child  he  met,  and  they  all 
answered  him  as  if  there  was  a  secret  freemasonry  between 
them;  but  the  grown-up  people  he  passed  with  troubled  eyes. 

"It  seems  strange  to  me,"  he  said  at  last,  "not  to  speak  to 
these  brothers  and  sisters  of  ours,  and  yet  I  see  all  about  me 
that  they  do  not  salute  one  another. ' ' 

"They  are  many,  and  they  are  all  strangers,"  I  tried  to 
explain. 

' '  Yes,  they  are  very  many, ' '  he  said  a  little  sadly.  ' '  I  had 
not  known  that  there  were  so  many  people  in  the  world,  and 
I  thought  that  in  a  Christian  country  they  would  not  be 
strangers. ' ' 

I  took  another  gondola  by  the  nearest  bridge,  and  we  rowed 
to  the  Frari.  I  hardly  knew  what  effect  that  great  church, 
with  its  famous  Titian,  would  have  upon  him.  A  group  of 
tourists  surrounded  the  picture.  I  heard  a  young  lady  ex- 
claiming : 

"My!  but  I  'd  like  her  veil!  Ain't  she  cute,  looking  round 
it  that  way?" 

Brother  Leo  did  not  pause;  he  passed  as  if  by  instinct 
toward  the  chapel  on  the  right  which  holds  the  softest,  tender- 
est  of  Bellinis.  There,  before  the  Madonna  with  her  four 
saints  and  two  small  attendant  cherubs,  he  knelt  again,  and 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  do  not  think  he  heard  the  return 
of  the  tourists,  who  were  rather  startled  at  seeing  him  there. 
The  elder  lady  remarked  that  he  might  have  some  infectious 
disease,  and  the  younger  that  she  did  not  think  much  of 
Bellini,  anyway. 

He  knelt  for  some  time,  and  I  had  not  the  heart  to  dis- 
turb him;  indeed,  I  had  no  wish  to,  either,  for  Bellini's  "Ma- 
donna" is  my  favorite  picture,  and  that  morning  I  saw  in  it 
more  than  I  had  ever  seen  before.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  that 
triumphant,  mellow  glow  of  the  great  master  was  an  eternal 
thing,  and  as  if  the  saints  and  their  gracious  Lady,  with  the 
stalwart,  standing  Child  upon  her  knee,  were  more  real  than 
flesh  and  blood,  and  would  still  be  more  real  when  flesh  and 
blood  had  ceased  to  be.  I  never  have  recaptured  the  feeling ; 
perhaps  there  was  something  infectious  about  Brother  Leo, 


234  BROTHER  LEO 

after  all.  He  made  no  comment  on  the  Madonna,  nor  did  I 
expect  one,  for  we  do  not  need  to  assert  that  we  find  the 
object  of  our  worship  beautiful ;  but  I  was  amused  at  his  calm 
refusal  to  look  upon  the  great  Titian  as  a  Madonna  at  all. 

**No,  no,"  he  said  firmly.  "This  one  is  no  doubt  some 
good  and  gracious  lady,  but  the  Madonna !  Signore,  you  jest. 
Or,  if  the  painter  thought  so,  he  was  deceived  by  the  devil. 
Yes,  that  is  very  possible.  The  father  has  often  told  us  that 
artists  are  exposed  to  great  temptations:  their  eyes  see  para- 
dise before  their  souls  have  reached  it,  and  that  is  a  great 
danger. ' ' 

I  said  no  more,  and  we  passed  out  into  the  street  again.  I 
felt  ashamed  to  say  that  I  wanted  my  luncheon,  but  I  did  say 
so,  and  it  did  not  seem  in  the  least  surprising  to  Brother  Leo ; 
he  merely  drew  out  a  small  wallet  and  offered  me  some  bread, 
which  he  said  the  father  had  given  him  for  our  needs. 

I  told  him  that  he  must  not  dream  of  eating  that ;  he  was 
to  come  and  dine  with  me  at  my  hotel.  He  replied  that  he 
would  go  wherever  I  liked,  but  that  really  he  would  prefer 
to  eat  his  bread  unless  indeed  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
a  beggar  who  would  like  it.  However,  we  were  not  so  fortu- 
nate, and  I  was  compelled  to  eat  my  exceedingly  substantial 
five-course  luncheon  while  my  companion  sat  opposite  me  and 
ate  his  half-loaf  of  black  bread  with  what  appeared  to  be  appe- 
tite and  satisfaction. 

He  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about  what  everything 
in  the  room  was  used  for  and  what  everything  cost,  and  ap- 
peared very  much  surprised  at  my  answers. 

"This,  then,"  he  said,  "is  not  like  all  the  other  hoiTses  in 
Venice?  Is  it  a  special  house — perhaps  for  the  English 
only?" 

I  explained  to  him  that  most  houses  contained  tables  and 
chairs;  that  this,  being  a  hotel,  was  in  some  ways  even  less 
furnished  than  a  private  house,  though  doubtless  it  was  larger 
and  was  arranged  with  a  special  eye  to  foreign  requirements. 

"But  the  poor — they  do  not  live  like  this?"  Leo  asked.  I 
had  to  own  that  the  poor  did  not.  "But  the  people  here  are 
rich  ? ' '  Leo  persisted. 


PHYLLIS  BOTTOMS  235 

**Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so,  tolerably  well  off,"  I  admitted. 

' '  How  miserable  they  must  be ! "  exclaimed  Leo,  compas- 
sionately.    ' '  Are  they  not  allowed  to  give  away  their  money  ? ' ' 

This  seemed  hardly  the  way  to  approach  the  question  of  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  made  it  any  better 
by  an  after-dinner  exposition  upon  capital  and  labor.  I 
finished,  of  course,  by  saying  that  if  the  rich  gave  to  the  poor 
to-day,  there  would  still  be  rich  and  poor  to-morrow.  It  did 
not  sound  very  convincing  to  me,  and  it  did  nothing  whatever 
to  convince  Brother  Leo. 

''That  is  perhaps  true,"  he  said  at  last.  *'One  would  not 
wish,  however,  to  give  all  into  unready  hands  like  that  poor 
beggar  this  morning  who  knew  no  better  than  to  pretend  in 
order  to  get  more  money.  No,  that  would  be  the  gift  of  a 
madman.  But  could  not  the  rich  use  their  money  in  trust  for 
the  poor,  and  help  and  teach  them  little  by  little  till  they 
learned  how  to  share  their  labor  and  their  wealth?  But  you 
know  how  ignorant  am  I  who  speak  to  you.  It  is  probable 
that  this  is  what  is  already  being  done  even  here  now  in  Venice 
and  all  over  the  world.  It  would  not  be  left  to  a  little  one 
like  me  to  think  of  it.  What  an  idea  for  the  brothers  at  home 
to  laugh  at!" 

"Some  people  do  think  these  things,"  I  admitted. 
But  do  not  all?"  asked  Brother  Leo,  incredulously. 
No,  not  all,"  I  confessed. 

^'Andiamo!'^  said  Leo,  rising  resolutely.  ''Let  us  pray  to 
the  Madonna.  What  a  vexation  it  must  be  to  her  and  to  all 
the  blessed  saints  to  watch  the  earth !  It  needs  the  patience 
of  the  Blessed  One  Himself,  to  bear  it." 

In  the  Palazzo  Giovanelli  there  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
Giorgiones.  It  is  called  "His  Family,"  and  it  represents  a 
beautiful  nude  woman  with  her  child  and  her  lover.  It 
seemed  to  me  an  outrage  that  this  young  brother  should  know 
nothing  of  the  world,  of  life.  I  was  determined  that  he 
should  see  this  picture.  I  think  I  expected  Brother  Leo  to 
be  shocked  when  he  saw  it.  I  know  I  was  surprised  that  he 
looked  at  it — at  the  serene  content  of  earth,  its  exquisite  ulti- 
mate satisfaction — a  long  time.     Then  he  said  in  an  awed  voice  ; 


236  BROTHER  LEO 

**It  is  SO  beautiful  that  it  is  strange  any  one  in  all  the  world 
can  doubt  the  love  of  God  who  gave  it. ' ' 

"Have  you  ever  seen  anything  more  beautiful;  do  you  be- 
lieve there  is  anything  more  beautiful?"  I  asked  rather 
cruelly. 

**Yes/'  said  Brother  Leo,  very  quietly;  "the  love  of  God 
is  more  beautiful,  only  that  cannot  be  painted." 

After  that  I  showed  him  no  more  pictures,  nor  did  I  try 
to  make  him  understand  life.  I  had  an  idea  that  he  under- 
stood it  already  rather  better  than  I  did. 

When  I  took  him  back  to  the  piazza,  it  was  getting  on 
toward  sunset,  and  we  sat  at  one  of  the  little  tables  at 
Florian's,  where  I  drank  coffee.  We  heard  the  band  and 
watched  the  slow-moving,  good-natured  Venetian  crowd,  and 
the  pigeons  winging  their  perpetual  flight. 

All  the  light  of  the  gathered  day  seemed  to  fall  on  the 
great  golden  church  at  the  end  of  the  piazza.  Brother  Leo 
did  not  look  at  it  very  much ;  his  attention  was  taken  up  com- 
pletely in  watching  the  faces  of  the  crowd,  and  as  he  watched 
them  I  thought  to  read  in  his  face  what  he  had  learned  in 
that  one  day  in  Venice — whether  my  mission  had  been  a  suc- 
cess or  a  failure ;  but,  though  I  looked  long  at  that  simple  and 
childlike  face,  I  learned  nothing. 

What  is  so  mysterious  as  the  eyes  of  a  child? 

But  I  was  not  destined  to  part  from  Brother  Leo  wholly  in 
ignorance.  It  was  as  if,  in  his  open  kindliness  of  nature,  he 
would  not  leave  me  with  any  unspoken  puzzle  between  us.  I 
had  been  his  friend  and  he  told  me,  because  it  was  the  way 
things  seemed  to  him,  that  I  had  been  his  teacher. 

We  stood  on  the  piazzetta.  I  had  hired  a  gondola  with  two 
men  to  row  him  back ;  the  water  was  like  beaten  gold,  and  the 
horizon  the  softest  shade  of  pink. 

* '  This  day  I  shall  remember  all  my  life, ' '  he  said,  * '  and  you 
in  my  prayers  with  all  the  world — always,  always.  Only  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  that  that  little  idea  of  mine,  which  th& 
father  told  me  he  had  spoken  to  you  about,  I  see  now  that  it 
is  too  large  for  me.  I  am  only  a  very  poor  monk.  I  should 
think  I  must  be  the  poorest  monk  God  has  in  all  His  family  of 


PHYLLIS  BOTTQME  237 

monks.  If  He  can  be  patient,  surely  I  can.  And  it  came  over 
me  while  we  were  looking  at  all  those  wonderful  things,  that 
if  money  had  been  the  way  to  save  the  world,  Christ  himself 
would  have  been  rich.  It  was  stupid  of  me.  I  did  not  re- 
member that  when  he  wanted  to  feed  the  multitude,  he  did  not 
empty  the  great  granaries  that  were  all  his,  too ;  he  took  only 
five  loaves  and  two  small  fishes ;  but  they  were  enough. 

"We  little  ones  can  pray,  and  God  can  change  His  world. 
Speriamo!'^  He  smiled  as  he  gave  me  his  hand — a  smile 
which  seemed  to  me  as  beautiful  as  anything  we  had  seen 
that  day  in  Venice.  Then  the  high-prowed,  black  gondola 
glided  swiftly  out  over  the  golden  waters  with  the  little  brown 
figure  seated  in  the  smallest  seat.  He  turned  often  to  wave 
to  me,  but  I  noticed  that  he  sat  with  his  face  away  from 
Venice. 

He  had  turned  back  to  San  Francesco  del  Deserto,  and  I 
knew  as  I  looked  at  his  face  that  he  carried  no  single  small 
regret  in  his  eager  heart. 


A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH  ^ 
By  IAN  MACLAREN 

When  Drumsheugh 's  grieve  was  brought  to  the  gates  of 
death  by  fever,  caught,  as  was  supposed,  on  an  adventurous 
visit  to  Glasgow,  the  London  doctor  at  Lord  Kilspindie  's  shoot- 
ing lodge  looked  in  on  his  way  from  the  moor,  and  declared  it 
impossible  for  Saunders  to  live  through  the  night. 

"I  give  him  six  hours,  more  or  less;  it  is  only  a  question 
of  time,"  said  the  oracle,  buttoning  his  gloves  and  getting 
into  the  brake.  "Tell  your  parish  doctor  that  I  was  sorry 
not  to  have  met  him. ' ' 

Bell  heard  this  verdict  from  behind  the  door,  and  gave  way 
utterly,  but  Drumsheugh  declined  to  accept  it  as  final,  and 
devoted  himself  to  consolation. 

"Dinna  greet  like  that,  Bell,  wumman,  sae  lang  as  Saun- 
ders is  still  livin';  a  '11  never  give  up  houp,  for  ma  pairt,  till 
oor  ain  man  says  the  word, 

"A'  the  doctors  in  the  land  dinna  ken  as  muckle  aboot  us  as 
Weelum  MacLure,  an'  he  's  ill  tae  beat  when  he  's  tryin'  tae 
save  a  man's  life." 

MacLure,  on  his  coming,  would  say  nothing,  either  weal  or 
woe,  till  he  had  examined  Saunders.  Suddenlj-  his  face 
turned  into  iron  before  their  eyes,  and  he  looked  like  one 
encountering  a  merciless  foe.  For  there  was  a  feud  between 
MacLure  and  a  certain  mighty  power  which  had  lasted 
for  forty  years  in  Drumtochty. 

"The  London  doctor  said  that  Saunders  wud  sough  awa* 
afore  mornin',  did  he?  Weel,  he  's  an'  authority  on  fevers 
an'  sic  like  diseases,  an'  ought  tae  ken. 

1  From  Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush.  Copyright,  1894,  by  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Company. 

238 


IAN  IklACLAREN  239 

*'It  's  may  be  presumptuous  o*  me  tae  differ  frae  him,  and  it 
wudna  be  verra  respeetfu'  o'  Saunders  tae  live  aifter  this 
opeenion.  But  Saunders  wes  aye  thraun  an'  ill  tae  drive, 
an'  he  's  as  like  as  no  tae  gang  his  ain  gait. 

*'A  'm  no  meanin'  tae  reflect  on  sae  clever  a  man,  but  he 
didna  ken  the  seetuation.  He  can  read  fevers  like  a  bulk,  but 
he  never  cam'  across  sic  a  thing  as  the  Drumtochty  constitu- 
tion a'  his  days. 

''Ye  see,  when  onybody  gets  as  lov7  as  puir  Saunders  here, 
it  's  a  juist  a  hand-to-hand  wrastle  atween  the  fever  and  his 
constitution,  an'  of  coorse,  if  he  hed  been  a  shilpit,  stuntit, 
feckless  e&eegy  o'  a  cratur,  fed  on  tea  an'  made  dishes  and 
pushioned  wi'  bad  air,  Saunders  wud  hae  nae  chance;  he  wes 
boond  tae  gae  oot  like  the  snuff  o'  a  candle. 

''But  Saunders  has  been  fiUin'  his  lungs  for  five  and  thirty 
year  wi'  strong  Drumtochty  air,  an'  eatin'  naethin'  but  kirny 
aitmeal,  and  drinkin'  naethin'  but  fresh  milk  frae  the  coo,  an' 
followin'  the  ploo  through  the  new-turned,  sweet-smellin' 
earth,  an'  swingin'  the  scythe  in  haytime  and  harvest,  till 
the  legs  an'  airms  o'  him  were  iron,  an'  his  chest  wes  like  the 
cuttin'  o'  an  oak  tree. 

"He  's  a  waesome  sicht  the  nicht,  but  Saunders  wes  a 
buirdly  man  aince,  and  wull  never  lat  his  life  be  taken  lichtly 
frae  him.  Na,  na;  he  hesna  sinned  against  Nature,  and 
Nature  'ill  stand  by  him  noo  in  his  oor  o'  distress. 

"A'  daurna  say  yea,  Bell,  muckle  as  a'  wud  like,  for  this  is 
an  evil  disease,  cunnin'  an'  treacherous  as  the  deevil  himsel', 
but  a'  winna  say  nay,  sae  keep  yir  hert  frae  despair. 

"It  wull  be  a  sair  fecht,  but  it  'ill  be  settled  one  wy  or 
anither  by  six  o'clock  the  morn's  morn.  Nae  man  can 
prophecee  hoo  it  'ill  end,  but  ae  thing  is  certain,  a  '11  no  see 
Deith  tak  a  Drumtochty  man  afore  his  time  if  a'  can  help  it. 

"Noo,  Bell,  ma  wumman,  yir  near  deid  wi'  tire,  an'  nae 
wonder.  Ye  've  dune  a'  ye  cud  for  yir  man  an'  ye  'ill  lippen 
(trust)  him  the  nicht  tae  Drumsheugh  an'  me;  we  'ill  no  fail 
him  or  you. 

' '  Lie  doon  an '  rest,  an '  if  it  be  the  wull  o '  the  Almichty  a  '11 
wauken  ye  in  the  mornin'  tae  see  a  livin',  conscious  man,  an' 


240  A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 

if  it  be  itherwise  a  'U  come  for  ye  the  suner,  Bell, ' '  and'  the 
big  red  hand  went  out  to  the  anxious  wife.  "A'  gie  ye  ma 
word." 

Bell  leant  over  the  bed,  and  at  the  sight  of  Saunders'  face 
a  superstitious  dread  seized  her. 

**See,  doctor,  the  shadow  of  deith  is  on  him  that  never  lifts. 
A  've  seen  it  afore,  on  ma  father  an'  mither.  A'  canna  leave 
him ;  a'  canna  leave  him ! ' ' 

**It 's  hoverin'.  Bell,  but  it  hesna  fallen;  please  God  it 
never  wull.  Gang  but  and  get  some  sleep,  for  it  's  time  we 
were  at  oor  wark. 

**The  doctors  in  the  toons  hae  nurses  an'  a'  kinds  o'  handy 
apparatus,"  said  MacLure  to  Drumsheugh  when  Bell  had 
gone,  '*but  you  an'  me  'ill  need  tae  be  nurse  the  nicht,  an' 
use  sic  things  as  we  hev. 

**It  'ill  be  a  lang  nicht  and  anxious  wark,  but  a'  wud  raither 
hae  ye,  auld  freend,  wi'  me  than  ony  man  in  the  Glen.  Ye  're 
no  feared  tae  gie  a  hand  ? ' ' 

*'Me  feared?  No  likely.  Man,  Saunders  cam'  tae  me  a 
haflin,  an'  hes  been  on  Drumsheugh  for  twenty  years,  an' 
though  he  be  a  dour  chiel,  he  's  a  faithfu'  servant  as  ever 
lived.  It  's  waesome  tae  see  him  lyin'  there  moanin'  like  some 
dumb  animal  f  rae  mornin '  to  nicht,  an '  no  able  tae  answer  his 
ain  wife  when  she  speaks. 

*'Div  ye  think,  Weelum,  he  hes  a  chance?" 

**That  he  hes,  at  ony  rate,  and  it  'ill  no  be  your  blame  or 
mine  if  he  hesna  mair. " 

While  he  was  speaking,  MacLure  took  off  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat and  hung  them  on  the  back  of  the  door.  Then  he  rolled 
up  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  and  laid  bare  two  arms  that  were 
nothing  but  bone  and  muscle. 

' '  It  gar  'd  ma  very  blood  rin  faster  tae  the  end  of  ma  fingers 
juist  tae  look  at  him,"  Drumsheugh  expatiated  afterwards  to 
Hillocks,  "for  a'  saw  noo  that  there  was  tae  be  a  stand-up 
fecht  atween  him  an'  Deith  for  Saunders,  and  when  a' 
thocht  o'  Bell  an'  her  bairns,  a'  kent  wha  wud  win. 

''  'Aff  wi'  yir  coat,  Drumsheugh,'  said  MacLure;  'ye  'ill 
need  tae  bend  yir  back  the  nicht;  gither  a'  the  pails  in  the 


IAN  MACIAREN  241 


hoose  and  fill  them  at  the  spring,  an '  a  '11  come  doon  tae  help 
ye  wi'  the  carry  in'/  " 

It  was  a  wonderful  ascent  up  the  steep  pathway  from  the 
spring  to  the  cottage  on  its  little  knoil,  the  two  men  in  single 
file,  bareheaded,  silent,  solemn,  each  with  a  pail  of  water  in 
either  hand,  MacLure  limping  painfully  in  front,  Drumsheugh 
blowing  behind;  and  when  they  laid  down  their  burden  in 
the  sick  room,  where  the  bits  of  furniture  had  been  put  to  a 
side  and  a  large  tub  held  the  centre,  Drumsheugh  looked  curi- 
ously at  the  doctor. 

''No,  a  'm  no  daft ;  ye  needna  be  feared ;  but  yir  tae  get  yir 
first  lesson  in  medicine  the  nicht,  an'  if  we  win  the  battle  ye 
can  set  up  for  yersel'  in  the  Glen. 

''There  's  twa  dangers — that  Saunders'  strength  fails,  an* 
that  the  force  o'  the  fever  grows;  and  we  have  juist  tw-a 
weapons. 

"Yon  milk  on  the  drawers'  head  an'  the  bottle  of  whisky 
is  tae  keep  up  the  strength,  and  this  cool  caller  water  is  tae 
keep  doon  the  fever. 

"We  'ill  cast  cot  the  fever  by  the  virtue  o-'  the  earth  an' 
the  water." 

"Div  ye  mean  tae  pit  Saunders  in  the  tub ?" 

"Ye  hiv  it  noo,  Drumsheugh,  and  that  's  hoo  a'  need  yir 
help." 

"Man,  Hillocks,"  Drumsheugh  used  to  moralise,  as  often 
as  he  remembered  that  critical  night,  "it  wes  humblin'  tae  see 
how  low  sickness  can  bring  a  pooerfu'  man,  an'  ocht  tae  keep 
us  f rae  pride. 

"A  month  syne  there  wesna  a  stronger  man  in  the  Glen  than 
Saunders,  an'  noo  he  wes  juist  a  bundle  o'  skin  and  bone,  that 
naither  saw  nor  heard,  nor  moved  nor  felt,  that  kent  naethin' 
that  was  dune  tae  him. 

"Hillocks,  a'  wudna  hae  wished  ony  man  tae  hev  seen  Saun- 
ders— for  it  wull  never  pass  frae  before  ma  een  as  long  as  a' 
live — ^but  a'  wish  a'  the  Glen  hed  stude  by  MacLure  kneelin' 
on  the  floor  wi'  his  sleeves  up  tae  his  oxters  and  waitin'  on 
Saunders. 

Yon  big  man  wes  as  pitifu'  an'  gentle  as  a  wumman,  and 


i  (' 


242  A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 

when  he  laid  the  puir  fallow  in  his  bed  again,  he  happit  him 
ower  as  a  mither  dis  her  bairn. ' ' 

Thrice  it  was  done,  Drumsheugh  ever  bringing  up  colder 
water  from  the  spring,  and  twice  MacLure  was  silent;  but 
after  the  third  time  there  was  a  gleam  in  his  eye. 

' '  We  're  haudin '  oor  ain ;  we  're  no  bein '  maistered,  at 
ony  rate ;  mair  a'  canna  say  for  three  oors. 

*'We  'ill  no  need  the  water  again,  Drumsheugh ;  gae  oot  and 
tak  a  breath  o'  air;  a  'm  on  gaird  masel'." 

It  was  the  hour  before  daybreak,  and  Drumsheugh  wan- 
dered through  the  fields  he  had  trodden  since  childhood.  The 
cattle  lay  sleeping  in  the  pastures;  their  shadowy  forms, 
with  a  patch  of  whiteness  here  and  there,  having  a  weird 
suggestion  of  death.  He  heard  the  burn  running  over  the 
stones;  fifty  years  ago  he  had  made  a  dam  that  lasted  till 
winter.  The  hooting  of  an  owl  made  him  start;  one  had 
frightened  him  as  a  boy  so  that  he  ran  home  to  his  mother — 
she  died  thirty  years  ago.  The  smell  of  ripe  corn  filled  the 
air ;  it  would  soon  be  cut  and  garnered.  He  could  see  the  dim 
outlines  of  his  house,  all  dark  and  cold;  no  one  he  loved  was 
beneath  the  roof.  The  lighted  window  in  Saunders'  cottage 
told  where  a  man  hung  between  life  and  death,  but  love  was 
in  that  home.  The  futility  of  life  arose  before  this  lonely 
man,  and  overcame  his  heart  with  an  indescribable  sadness. 
What  a  vanity  was  all  human  labor;  what  a  mystery  all 
human  life ! 

But  while  he  stood,  a  subtle  change  came  over  the  night,  and 
the  air  trembled  round  him  as  if  one  had  whispered.  Drum- 
sheugh lifted  his  head  and  looked  eastward.  A  faint  gray 
stole  over  the  distant  horizon,  and  suddenly  a  cloud  reddened 
before  his  eyes.  The  sun  was  not  in  sight,  but  was  rising, 
and  sending  forerunners  before  his  face.  The  cattle  began  to 
stir,  a  blackbird  burst  into  song,  and  before  Drumsheugh 
crossed  the  threshold  of  Saunders'  house,  the  first  ray  of  the 
sun  had  broken  on  a  peak  of  the  Grampians. 

MacLure  left  the  bedside,  and  as  the  light  of  the  candle  fell 
on  the  doctor's  face,  Drumsheugh  could  see  that  it  was  going 
well  with  Saunders. 


IAN  MACLAREN  243 

**He  's  nae  waur;  an'  it  's  half  six  noo;  it  's  ower  sune  tae 
say  mair,  but  a  'm  houpin'  for  the  best.  Sit  doon  and  take  a 
sleep,  for  ye  're  needin'  't,  Drumsheugh,  an',  man,  ye  hae 
worked  for  it." 

As  he  dozed  off,  the  last  thing  Drumsheugh  saw  was  the 
doctor  sitting  erect  in  his  chair,  a  clenched  fist  resting  on 
the  bed,  and  his  eyes  already  bright  with  the  vision  of  vic- 
tory. 

He  awoke  with  a  start  to  find  the  room  flooded  with  the 
morning  sunshine,  and  every  trace  of  last  night's  work  re- 
moved. 

The  doctor  was  bending  over  the  bed,  and  speaking  to 
Saunders. 

'*It  's  me,  Saunders;  Doctor  MacLure,  ye  ken;  dinna  try 
tae  speak  or  move ;  juist  let  this  drap  milk  slip  ower — ye  'ill 
be  needin'  yir  breakfast,  lad — and  gang  tae  sleep  again." 

Five  minutes,  and  Saunders  had  fallen  into  a  deep,  healthy 
sleep,  all  tossing  and  moaning  come  to  an  end.  Then  Mac- 
Lure  stepped  softly  across  the  floor,  picked  up  his  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

Drumsheugh  arose  and  followed  him  without  a  word. 
They  passed  through  the  little  garden,  sparkling  with  dew, 
and  beside  the  byre,  where  Hawkie  rattled  her  chain,  im- 
patient for  Bell's  coming,  and  by  Saunders'  little  strip  of  corn 
ready  for  the  scythe,  till  they  reached  an  open  field.  There 
they  came  to  a  halt,  and  Dr.  MacLure  for  once  allowed  him- 
self to  go. 

His  coat  he  flung  east  and  his  waistcoat  west,  as  far  as  he 
could  hurl  them,  and  it  was  plain  he  would  have  shouted  had 
he  been  a  complete  mile  from  Saunders'  room.  Any  less  dis- 
tance was  useless  for  adequate  expression.  He  struck  Drum- 
sheugh a  mighty  blow  that  well-nigh  levelled  that  substantial 
man  in  the  dust,  and  then  the  doctor  of  Drumtochty  issued  his 
bulletin. 

' '  Saunders  wesna  tae  live  through  the  nicht,  but  he  's  livin ' 
this  meenut,  an'  like  to  live. 

''He  's  got  by  the  warst  clean  and  fair,  and  wi'  him  that  's 
as  good  as  cure. 


244  A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 

*'It  'ill  be  a  graund  waukenin'  for  Bell;  she  'ill  no  be  a 
weedow  yet,  nor  the  bairnies  fatherless. 

"There  's  nae  use  glowerin'  at  me,  Drumsheugh,  for  a 
body  's  daft  at  a  time,  an'  a'  canna  contain  masel',  and  a  'm 
no  gaein'  tae  try." 

Then  it  dawned  upon  Drumsheugh  that  the  doctor  was 
attempting  the  Highland  fling. 

"He  's  ill  made,  tae  begin  wi',"  Drumsheugh  explained  in 
the  kirkyard  next  Sabbath,  "and  ye  ken  he  's  been  terrible 
mishannelled  by  accidents,  sae  ye  may  think  what  like  it  wes, 
but,  as  sure  as  deith,  o'  a'  the  Hielan'  flings  a'  ever  saw  yon 
wes  the  bonniest. 

"A'  hevna  shaken  ma  ain  legs  for  thirty  years,  but  a'  con- 
fess tae  a  turn  masel'.  Ye  may  lauch  an'  ye  like,  neeburs, 
but  the  thocht  o'  Bell  an'  the  news  that  wes  waitin'  her  got 
the  better  o'  me." 

Drumtochty  did  not  laugh.  Drumtochty  looked  as  if  it 
could  have  done  quite  otherwise  for  joy. 

"A'  wud  hae  made  a  third  gin  a'  hed  been  there,"  an- 
nounced Hillocks  aggressively. 

"Come  on,  Drumsheugh,"  said  Jamie  Soutar,  "gie  's  the 
end  0  't ;  it  wes  a  michty  mornin '. ' ' 

"  'We  're  twa  auld  fules,'  says  MacLure  tae  me,  as  he 
gaithers  up  his  claithes.  'It  wud  set  us  better  tae  be  tellin' 
Bell. ' 

"She  was  sleep  in'  on  the  top  o'  her  bed  wrapped  in  a  plaid, 
fair  worn  oot  wi'  three  weeks'  nursin'  o'  Saunders,  but  at  the 
first  touch  she  was  oot  upon  the  floor. 

"  'Is  Saunders  deein',  doctor?'  she  cries.  'Ye  promised  tae 
wauken  me;  dinna  tell  me  it  's  a'  ower.' 

"There  's  nae  deein'  aboot  him,  Bell;  ye  're  no  tae  lose  yir 
man  this  time,  sae  far  as  a'  can  see.  Come  ben  an'  jidge  for 
yersel '. ' 

"Bell  lookit  at  Saunders,  and  the  tears  of  joy  fell  on  the 
bed  like  rain. 

"  'The  shadow  's  lifted,'  she  said;  'he  's  come  back  frae 
the  mooth  o '  the  tomb. 

A'  prayed  last  nicht  that  the  Lord  wud  leave  Saunders 


( <  I 


IAN  MACLAREN  245 

till  the  laddies  cud  dae  for  themselves,  an'  thae  words  came 
intae  ma  mind,  "Weepin'  may  endure  for  a  nicht,  but  joy 
Cometh  in  the  mornin'." 

*'  'The  Lord  heard  ma  prayer,  and  joy  hes  come  in  the 
mornin','  a^i'  she  gripped  the  doctor's  hand. 

"  'Ye  've  been  the  instrument,  Doctor  MacLure.  Ye  wudna 
gie  him  up,  and  ye  did  what  nae  ither  cud  for  him,  an'  a've  ma 
man  the  day,  and  the  bairns  hae  their  father. ' 

"An'  afore  MacLure  kent  what  she  was  daein',  Bell  lifted 
his  hand  to  her  lips  an'  kissed  it." 

"Did  she,  though?"  cried  Jamie.  "Wha  wud  hae  thocht 
there  wes  as  muckle  spunk  in  Bell?'* 

"MacLure,  of  coorse,  was  clean  scandalised,"  continued 
Drumsheugh,  "an'  pooed  awa'  his  hand  as  if  it  hed  been 
burned. 

"Nae  man  can  thole  that  kind  o'  fraikin',  and  a'  never 
heard  o'  sic  a  thing  in  the  parish,  but  we  maun  excuse  Bell, 
neeburs;  it  wes  an  occasion  by  ordinar, "  and  Drumsheugh 
made  Bell's  apology  to  Drumtochty  for  such  an  excess  of  feel- 
ing. 

"A*  see  naethin'  tae  excuse,"  insisted  Jamie,  who  was  in 
great  fettle  that  Sabbath;  "the  doctor  hes  never  been  bur- 
dened wi'  fees,  and  a'm  judgin'  he  coonted  a  wumman's 
gratitude  that  he  saved  frae  weedowhood  the  best  he  ever 
got." 

"A'  gaed  up  tae  the  Manse  last  nicht,"  concluded  Drum- 
sheugh, "an'  telt  the  minister  hoo  the  doctor  focht  aucht  oors 
for  Saunders'  life,  an'  won,  an'  ye  never  saw  a  man  sae  car- 
ried. He  walkit  up  an'  doon  the  room  a'  the  time,  and  every 
other  meenut  he  blew  his  nose  like  a  trumpet. 

"  'I  've  a  cold  in  my  head  to-night,  Drumsheugh,'  says  he; 
*  never  mind  me.'  " 

"A've  hed  the  same  masel'  in  sic  circumstances;  they  come 
on  sudden,"  said  Jamie. 

"A'  wager  there  'ill  be  a  new  bit  in  the  laist  prayer  tht- 
day,  an'  somethin'  worth  hearin'." 

And  tRe  fathers  went  into  kirk  in  great  expectation. 
We  beseech  Thee  for  such  as  be  sick,  that  Thy  hand  may 


(( 


246  A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 

be  on  them  for  good,  and  that  Thou  wouldst  restore  them 
again  to  health  and  strength,"  was  the  familiar  petition  of 
every  Sabbath. 

The  congregation  waited  in  a  silence  that  might  be  heard, 
and  were  not  disappointed  that  morning,  for  the  minister  con- 
tinued : 

"Especially  we  tender  Thee  hearty  thanks  that  Thou 
didst  spare  Thy  servant  who  was  brought  down  into  the  dust 
of  death,  and  hast  given  him  back  to  his  wife  and  children, 
and  unto  that  end  didst  wonderfully  bless  the  skill  of  him  who 
goes  out  and  in  amongst  us,  the  beloved  physician  of  this 
parish  and  adjacent  districts." 

"Didna  a'  tell  ye,  neeburs?"  said  Jamie,  as  they  stood  at 
the  kirkyard  gate  before  dispersing,  *' there  's  no  a  man  in  the 
coonty  cud  hae  dune  it  better.  'Beloved  physician,'  an'  his 
'skill,'  tae,  an'  bringing  in  'adjacent  districts';  that  's  Glen 
Urtach ;  it  wes  handsome,  and  the  doctor  earned  it,  ay,  every 
word. 

"It  's  an  awfu'  peety  he  didna  hear  yon;  but  dear  knows 
whar  he  is  the  day,  maist  likely  up " 

Jamie  stopped  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet,  and 
there,  coming  down  the  avenue  of  beech  trees  that  made  a  long 
vista  from  the  kirk  gate,  they  saw  the  doctor  and  Jess. 

One  thought  flashed  through  the  minds  of  the  fathers  of 
the  commonwealth. 

It  ought  to  be  done  as  he  passed,  and  it  would  be  done  if 
it  were  not  Sabbath.  Of  course  it  was  out  of  the  question 
on  Sabbath. 

The  doctor  is  now  distinctly  visible,  riding  after  his  fashion. 

There  was  never  such  a  chance,  if  it  were  only  Saturday; 
and  each  man  read  his  own  regret  in  his  neighbour's  face. 

The  doctor  is  nearing  them  rapidly ;  they  can  imagine  the 
shepherd's  tartan. 

Sabbath  or  no  Sabbath,  the  Glen  cannot  let  him  pass  with- 
out some  tribute  of  their  pride. 

Jess  has  recognised  friends,  and  the  doctor  is  drawing 
rein. 

"It  hes  tae  be  dune,"  said  Jamie  desperately,  "say  what 


IAN  MACLcAREN  247 

ye  like/'     Then  they  all  looked  towards  him,  and  Jamie  led. 

' '  Hurrah ! ' '  swinging  his  Sabbath  hat  in  the  air,  ' '  hurrah ! ' ' 
and  once  more,  "hurrah !"  Whinnie  Knowe,  Drumsheugh,  and 
Hillocks  joining  lustily,  but  Tammas  Mitchell  carr^ang  all 
before  him,  for  he  had  found  at  last  an  expression  for  his 
feelings  that  rendered  speech  unnecessary. 

It  was  a  solitary  experience  for  horse  and  rider,  and  Jess 
bolted  without  delay.  But  the  sound  followed  and  surrounded 
them,  and  as  they  passed  the  corner  of  the  kirkyard,  a  figure 
waved  his  college  cap  over  the  wall  and  gave  a  cheer  on  his 
own  account. 

"God  bless  you,  doctor,  and  well  done!" 

"If  it  isna  the  minister,"  cried  Drumsheugh,  "in  his  goon 
an'  bans;  tae  think  o'  that;  but  a'  respeck  him  for  it." 

Then  Drumtochty  became  self-conscious  and  went  home  in 
confusion  of  face  and  unbroken  silence,  except  Jamie  Soutar, 
who  faced  his  neighbours  at  the  parting  of  the  ways  without 
shame. 

"A'  wud  dae  it  a'  ower  again  if  a'  hed  the  chance;  he  got 
naethin'  but  his  due." 

It  was  two  miles  before  Jess  composed  her  mind,  and  the 
doctor  and  she  could  discuss  it  quietly  together. 

"A'  can  hardly  believe  me  ears,  Jess,  an'  the  Sabbath  tae; 
their  verra  jidgment  hes  gane  frae  the  fouk  o'  Drumtochty. 

"They've  heard  about  Saunders,  a'm  thinkin',  wumman, 
and  they  're  pleased  we  brocht  him  roond ;  he  's  fairly  on  the 
mend,  ye  ken,  noo. 

"A'  never  expeckit  the  like  o'  this,  though,  and  it  wes 
juist  a  wee  thingie  mair  than  a'  cud  hae  stude. 

"Ye  hev  yir  share  in't  tae,  lass;  we  've  hed  mony  a  hard 
nicht  and  day  thegither,  an'  yon  wes  oor  reward.  No  mony 
men  in  this  warld  'ill  ever  get  a  better,  for  it  cam'  from  the 
hert  0 '  honest  fouk. ' ' 


THE  DAN-NAN-RON  1 

By  FIONA  MACLEOD 

When  Anne  Gillespie,  that  was  my  friend  in  Eilanmore, 
left  the  island  after  the  death  of  her  uncle,  the  old  man  Robert 
Achanna,  it  was  to  go  far  west. 

Among  the  men  of  the  Outer  Isles  who  for  three  summers 
past  had  been  at  the  fishing  off  Eilanmore  there  was  one 
named  Manus  MacCodrum.  He  was  a  fine  lad  to  see,  but 
though  most  of  the  hsher-folk  of  the  Lews  and  North  Uist 
are  fair,  either  with  reddish  hair  and  grey  eyes,  or  blue- 
eyed  and  yellow-haired,  he  was  of  a  brown  skin  with  dark 
hair  and  dusky  brown  eyes.  He  was,  however,  as  unlike 
to  the  dark  Celts  of  Arran  and  the  Inner  Hebrides  as  to  the 
northmen.  He  came  of  his  people,  sure  enough.  All  the 
MacCodrums  of  North  Uist  had  been  brown-skinned  and 
brown-haired  and  brown-eyed;  and  herein  may  have  lain  the 
reason  why,  in  by-gone  days,  this  small  clan  of  Uist  was 
known  throughout  the  Western  Isles  as  the  Sliochd  non  Bdn, 
the  offspring  of  the  Seals. 

Not  so  tall  as  most  of  the  men  of  North  Uist  and  the 
Lews,  Manus  MacCodrum  was  of  a  fair  height,  and  supple  and 
strong.  No  man  was  a  better  fisherman  than  he,  and  he  was 
well  liked  of  his  fellows,  for  all  the  morose  gloom  that  was 
upon  him  at  times.  He  had  a  voice  as  sweet  as  a  woman's 
when  he  sang,  and  he  sang  often,  and  knew  all  the  old  runes  of 
the  islands,  from  the  Obb  of  Harris  to  the  Head  of  Mingulay. 
Often,  too,  he  chanted  the  beautiful  orain  spioradail  of  the 
Catholic  priests  and  Christian  Brothers  of  South  Uist  and 
Barra,  though  where  he  lived  in  North  Uist  he  was  the  sole 
man  who  adhered  to  the  ancient  faith. 

It  may  have  been  because  Anne  was  a  Catholic  too,  though, 

1  From  The  Dominion  of  Dreams,  Under  the  Dark  Star.  By  permis- 
sion of  Mrs.  William  Sharp.     Copyright,  1910,  by  Dufiield  &  Company. 

"^248 


FIONA  MACLEOD  249 

sure,  the  Achannas  were  so  also,  notwithstanding  that  their 
forebears  and  kindred  in  Galloway  were  Protestant  (and  this 
because  of  old  Robert  Aehanna's  love  for  his  wife,  who  was 
of  the  old  Faith,  so  it  is  said) — it  may  have  been  for  this 
reason,  though  I  think  her  lover's  admiring  eyes  and  soft 
speech  and  sweet  singing  had  more  to  do  with  it,  that  she 
pledged  her  troth  to  Manus.  It  was  a  south  wind  for  him 
as  the  saying  is;  for  with  her  rippling  brown  hair  and  soft, 
grey  eyes  and  cream-white  skin,  there  was  no  comelier  lass 
in  the  isles. 

So  when  Achanna  was  laid  to  his  long  rest,  and  there  was 
none  left  upon  Eilanmore  save  only  his  three  youngest  sons, 
Manus  MacCodrum  sailed  north-eastward  across  the  Minch 
to  take  home  his  bride.  Of  the  four  eldest  sons,  Alasdair 
had  left  Eilanmore  some  months  before  his  father  died,  and 
sailed  westward,  though  no  one  knew  whither  or  for  what 
end  or  for  how  long,  and  no  word  had  been  brought  from 
him,  nor  was  he  ever  seen  again  in  the  island  which  had  come 
to  be  called  Eilan-nan-Allmharachain,  the  Isle  of  the 
Strangers;  Allan  and  William  had  been  drowned  in  a  wild 
gale  in  the  Minch ;  and  Robert  had  died  of  the  white  fever,  that 
deadly  wasting  disease  which  is  the  scourge  of  the  isles. 
Marcus  was  now  ^'Eilanmore,"  and  lived  there  with  Gloom 
and  Seumas,  all  three  unmarried,  though  it  was  rumoured 
among  the  neighbouring  islanders  that  each  loved  Marsail  nic 
Ailpean,^  in  Eilean-Rona  of  the  Summer  Isles  hard  by  the 
coast  of  Sutherland. 

"When  Manus  asked  Anne  to  go  with  him  she  agreed.  The 
three  brothers  were  ill-pleased  at  this,  for  apart  from  their  not 
wishing  their  cousin  to  go  so  far  away,  they  did  not  want  to 
lose  her,  as  she  not  only  cooked  for  them  and  did  all  that  a 
woman  does,  including  spinning  and  weaving,  but  was  most 
sweet  and  fair  to  see,  and  in  the  long  winter  nights  sang  by 
the  hour  together,  while  Gloom  played  strange  wild  airs 
upon  his  feadan,  a  kind  of  oaten  pipe  or  flute. 

1  Marsail  nic  Ailpean  is  the  Gaelic  of  which  an  English  translation 
would  be  Marjory  MacAlpine.  Nic  is  a  contraction  for  nighean  mhic, 
"daughter  of  the  line  of  " 


250  THE  DAN-NAN-RON 

She  loved  him,  I  know;  but  there  was  this  reason  also 
for  her  going,  that  she  was  afraid  of  Gloom.  Often  upon 
the  moor  or  on  the  hill  she  turned  and  hastened  home,  be- 
cause she  heard  the  lilt  and  fall  of  that  feadan.  It  was  an 
eerie  thing  to  her,  to  be  going  through  the  twilight  when  she 
thought  the  three  men  were  in  the  house,  smoking  after  their 
supper,  and  suddenly  to  hear  beyond  and  coming  toward 
her  the  shrill  song  of  that  oaten  flute,  playing  ' '  The  Dance  of 
the  Dead,"  or  "The  Flow  and  Ebb,"  or  ''The  Shadow- 
Reel." 

That,  sometimes  at  least,  he  knew  she  was  there  was  clear 
to  her,  because,  as  she  stole  rapidly  through  the  tangled  fern 
and  gale,  she  would  hear  a  mocking  laugh  follow  her  like  a 
leaping  thing. 

Manus  was  not  there  on  the  night  when  she  told  Marcus  and 
his  brothers  that  she  was  going.  He  was  in  the  haven  on 
board  the  Luatli,  with  his  two  mates,  he  singing  in  the  moon- 
shine as  all  three  sat  mending  their  fishing  gear. 

After  the  supper  was  done,  the  three  brothers  sat  smoking 
and  talking  over  an  offer  that  had  been  made  about  some 
Shetland  sheep.  For  a  time,  Anne  watched  them  in  silence. 
They  were  not  like  brothers,  she  thought.  Marcus,  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  with  yellow  hair  and  strangely  dark  blue- 
black  eyes  and  black  eyebrows;  stern,  with  a  weary  look  on 
his  sun-brown  face.  The  light  from  the  peats  glinted  upon 
the  tawny  curve  of  thick  hair  that  trailed  from  his  upper  lip, 
for  he  had  the  caisean-feusag  of  the  Northmen.  Gloom, 
slighter  of  build,  dark  of  hue  and  hair,  but  with  hairless  face ; 
with  thin,  white,  long-fingered  hands  that  had  ever  a  nervous 
motion,  as  though  they  were  tide-wrack.  There  was  always 
a  frown  on  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  even  when  he  smiled 
with  his  thin  lips  and  dusky,  unbetraying  eyes.  He  looked 
what  he  was,  the  brain  of  the  Achannas.  Not  only  did  he 
have  the  English  as  though  native  to  that  tongue,  but  could 
and  did  read  strange  unnecessary  books.  Moreover,  he  was 
the  only  son  of  Robert  Achanna  to  whom  the  old  man  had 
imparted  his  store  of  learning,  for  Achanna  had  been  a  school- 
master in  his  youth,  in  Galloway,  and  he  had  intended  Gloom 


FIONA  MACLEOD  251 

for  the  priesthood.  His  voice,  too,  was  low  and  clear,  but 
cold  as  pale-green  water  running  under  ice.  As  for  Seumas, 
he  was  more  like  Marcus  than  Gloom,  though  not  so  fair. 
He  had  the  same  brown  hair  and  shadowy  hazel  eyes,  the 
same  pale  and  smooth  face,  with  something  of  the  same  in- 
tent look  which  characterised  the  long-time  missing,  and  prob- 
ably dead,  eldest  brother,  Alasdair.  He,  too,  was  tall  and 
gaunt.  On  Seumas 's  face  there  was  that  indescribable,  as 
to  some  of  course  imperceptible,  look  which  is  indicated  by 
the  phrase  "the  dusk  of  the  shadow,"  though  few  there  are 
who  know  what  they  mean  by  that,  or,  knowing,  are  fain 
to  say. 

Suddenly,  and  without  any  word  or  reason  for  it.  Gloom 
turned  and  spoke  to  her. 

"Well,  Anne,  and  what  is  it?" 

"I  did  not  speak,  Gloom." 

"True  for  you,  mo  cailinn.  But  it  's  about  to  speak  you 
were." 

' '  Well,  and  that  is  true.  Marcus,  and  you  Gloom,  and  you 
Seumas,  I  have  that  to  tell  which  you  will  not  be  altogether 
glad  for  the  hearing.  'T  is  about — about  — me  and — and 
Manus. ' ' 

There  was  no  reply  at  first.  The  three  brothers  sat  looking 
at  her  like  the  kye  at  a  stranger  on  the  moorland.  There  was 
a  deepening  of  the  frown  on  Gloom's  brow,  but  when  Anne 
looked  at  him  his  eyes  fell  and  dwelt  in  the  shadow  at  his  feet. 
Then  Marcus  spoke  in  a  low  voice: 

"Is  it  Manus  MacCodrum  you  will  be  meaning?" 

"Ay,  sure." 

Again  silence.  Gloom  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  and  Seumas  was 
now  staring  at  the  peats.     Marcus  shifted  uneasily. 

"And  what  will  Manus  MacCodrum  be  wanting?" 

' '  Sure,  Marcus,  you  know  well  what  I  mean.  Why  do  you 
make  this  thing  hard  for  me?  There  is  but  one  thing  he 
would  come  here  wanting.  And  he  has  asked  me  if  I  will  go 
with  him;  and  I  have  said  yes;  and  if  you  are  not  willing 
that  he  come  again  with  the  minister,  or  that  we  go  across  to 
the  kirk  in  Berneray  of  Uist  in  the  Sound  of  Harris,  then  I 


2&2  THE  DAN-NAN-r5n 

will  not  stay  under  this  roof  another  night,  but  will  go  away 
from  Eilanmore  at  sunrise  in  the  Luath,  that  is  now^  in  the 
haven.  And  that  is  for  the  hearing  and  knowing,  Marcus 
and  Gloom  and  Seumas!" 

Once  more,  silence  followed  her  speaking.  It  was  broken 
in  a  strange  way.  Gloom  slipped  his  feadan  into  his  hands, 
and  so  to  his  mouth.  The  clear,  cold  notes  of  the  flute  filled 
the  flame-lit  room.  It  was  as  though  white  polar  birds  were 
drifting  before  the  coming  of  snow. 

The  notes  slid  in  to  a  wild,  remote  air:  cold  moonlight  on 
the  dark  o'  the  sea,  it  was.     It  was  the  Ddn-nan-Ron. 

Anne  flushed,  trembled,  and  then  abruptly  rose.  As  she 
leaned  on  her  clenched  right  hand  upon  the  table,  the  light 
of  the  peats  showed  that  her  eyes  were  aflame. 

''Why  do  you  play  that,  Gloom  Achanna?" 

The  man  finished  the  bar,  then  blew  into  the  oaten  pipe, 
before,  just  glancing  at  the  girl,  he  replied: 

"And  what  harm  will  there  be  in  that,  Anna-ban?" 

"Do  you  know  why  Gloom  played  the  'Dan-nan-Ron'?" 

"Ay,  and  what  then,  Anna-ban?" 

"What  then?  Are  you  thinking  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  by  playing  the  'Song  o'  the  Seals'?" 

With  an  abrupt  gesture  Gloom  put  the  feadan  aside.  As 
he  did  so,  he  rose. 

"See  here,  Anne,"  he  began  roughly,  when  Marcus  inter- 
vened. 

"That  will  do  just  now,  Gloom.  Anne-a-ghraidh,  do  you 
mean  that  you  are  going  to  do  this  thing?" 

"Ay,  sure." 

"Do  you  know  why  Gloom  played  the  *  Dan-nan-Ron '? " 

"It  was  a  cruel  thing." 

"You  know  what  is  said  in  the  isles  about — about — this 
or  that  man,  who  is  under  gheasan,  who  is  spell-bound  and — 
and — about  the  seals — " 

"Yes,  Marcus,  it  is  knowing  it  that  I  am:  *Tha  iad  a' 
cantuinn  gur  h-e  daoine  fo  gheasan  a  th'  anns  no  roin.*  " 

"  'They  say  that  seals,'  "  he  repeated  slowly.    ''  *They  say 


FIONA  MACLEOD  253 

tJiat  seals  are  men  under  magic  spells.'    And  have  you  ever 
pondered  that  thing,  Anne,  my  cousin? 

"1  am  knowing  well  what  you  mean. 

"Then  you  will  know  that  the  MacCodrums  of  North  Uist 
are  called  the  Sliochd-nan-Ronf" 

''I  have  heard." 

"And  would  you  be  for  marrying  a  man  that  is  of  the  race 
of  the  beasts,  and  himself  knowing  what  that  geas  means, 
and  who  may  any  day  go  back  to  his  people  ? ' ' 

"Ah,  now,  Marcus,  sure  it  is  making  a  mock  of  me  you  are. 
Neither  you  nor  any  here  believe  that  foolish  thing.  How 
can  a  man  born  of  a  woman  be  a  seal,  even  though  his  sinnsear 
were  the  offspring  of  the  sea-people,  which  is  not  a  saying  I 
am  believing  either,  though  it  may  be ;  and  not  that  it  matters 
much,  whatever,  about  the  far-back  forebears. 

Marcus  frowned  darkly,  and  at  first  made  no  response. 
At  last  he  a'Uswered,  speaking  sullenly : 

"You  may  be  believing  this  or  you  may  be  believing  that, 
Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig,  but  two  things  are  as  well  known  as 
that  the  east  wind  brings  the  blight  and  the  west  wind  the 
rain.  And  one  is  this:  that  long  ago  a  Seal-man  wedded  a 
woman  of  North  Uist,  and  that  he  or  his  son  was  called  Neil 
IMacCodrum;  and  that  the  sea-fever  of  the  seal  was  in  the 
blood  of  his  line  ever  after.  And  this  is  the  other :  that  twice 
within  the  memory  of  living  folk,  a  MacCodrum  has  taken 
upon  himself  the  form  of  a  seal,  and  has  so  met  his  death, 
once  Neil  MacCodrum  of  Ru'  Tormaid,  and  once  Anndra 
MacCodrum  of  Berneray  in  the  Sound.  There  's  talk  of 
others,  but  these  are  known  of  us  all.  And  you  will  not  be 
forgetting  now  that  Neildonn  was  the  grandfather,  and  that 
Anndra  was  the  brother  of  the  father  of  Manus  MacCodrum?" 

"I  am  not  caring  what  you  say,  Marcus.  It  is  all  foam  of 
the  sea." 

"There  's  no  foam  without  wind  or  tide,  Anne,  an'  it  's 
a  dark  tide  that  will  be  bearing  you  away  to  Uist,  and  a 
black  wind  that  will  be  blowing  far  away  behind  the  East, 
the  wind  that  will  be  carrying  his  death-cry  to  your  ears 


)  t 


254  THE  d1N-NA^-R5n 

The  girl  shuddered.  The  brave  spirit  in  her,  however,  did 
not  quail. 

"Well,  so  be  it.  To  each  his  fate.  But,  seal  or  no  seal, 
I  am  going  to  wed  Manus  MacCodrum,  who  is  a  man  as  good 
as  any  here,  and  a  true  man  at  that,  and  the  man  I  love,  and 
that  will  be  my  man,  God  willing,  the  praise  be  His ! ' ' 

Again  Gloom  took  up  the  f eadan,  and  sent  a  few  cold,  white 
notes  floating  through  the  hot  room,  breaking,  suddenly,  into 
the  wild,  fantastic,  opening  air  of  the  ''Dan-nan-Ron." 

With  a  low  cry  and  passionate  gesture  Anne  sprang  for- 
ward, snatched  the  oat-flute  from  his  grasp,  and  would  have 
thrown  it  in  the  fire.  Marcus  held  her  in  an  iron  grip, 
however. 

"Don't  you  be  minding  Gloom,  Anne,"  he  said  quietly,  as 
he  took  the  feadan  from  her  hand  and  handed  it  to  his 
brother:  "sure  he  's  only  telling  you  in  his  way  what  I  am 
telling  you  in  mine." 

She  shook  herself  free,  and  moved  to  the  other  side  of  the 
table.  On  the  opposite  wall  hung  the  dirk  which  had  belonged 
to  old  Achanna.  This  she  unfastened.  Holding  it  in  her 
right  hand,  she  faced  the  three  men. — 

"On  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  I  will  be  the  woman  of 
Manus  MacCodrum." 

The  brothers  made  no  response.     They  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"And  by  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  that  if  any  man 
come  between  me  and  Manus,  this  dirk  will  be  for  his  remem- 
bering in  a  certain  hour  of  the  day  of  the  days." 

As  she  spoke,  she  looked  meaningly  at  Gloom,  whom  she 
feared  more  than  Marcus  or  Seumas. 

"And  by  the  cross  of  the  dirk  I  swear  that  if  evil  come  to 
Manus,  this  dirk  will  have  another  sheath,  and  that  will  be 
my  milkless  breast;  and  by  that  token  I  now  throw  the  old 
sheath  in  the  fire." 

As  she  finished,  she  threw  the  sheath  on  to  the  burning 
peats.  Gloom  quietly  lifted  it,  brushed  off  the  sparks  of 
flame  as  though  they  were  dust,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"And  by  the  same  token,  Anne,"  he  said,  "your  oaths  will 
come  to  nought. 


>  T 


FIONA  MACLEOD  255 

Rising,  he  made  a  sign  to  his  brothers  to  follow.  When 
they  were  outside  he  told  Seumas  to  return,  and  to  keep 
Anne  within,  by  peace  if  possible,  by  force  if  not.  Briefly 
they  discussed  their  plans,  and  then  separated.  AVhile 
Seumas  went  back,  Marcus  and  Gloom  made  their  way  to  the 
haven. 

Their  black  figures  were  visible  in  the  moonlight,  but  at 
first  they  were  not  noticed  by  the  men  on  board  the  Luath,  for 
Manus  was  singing. 

When  the  islesman  stopped  abruptl}^  one  of  his  compan- 
ions asked  him  jokingly  if  his  song  had  brought  a  seal  along- 
side, and  bid  him  beware  lest  it  was  a  woman  of  the  sea- 
people. 

His  face  darkened,  but  he  made  no  reply.  When  the  others 
listened  they  heard  the  wild  strain  of  the  "Dan-nan-Ron" 
stealing  through  the  moonshine.  Staring  against  the  shore, 
they  could  discern  the  two  brothers. 

' '  What  will  be  the  meaning  of  that  ? ' '  asked  one  of  the  men, 
uneasily. 

"When  a  man  comes  instead  of  a  woman,"  answered  Manus, 
slowly,  ' '  the  young  corbies  are  astir  in  the  nest. ' ' 

So,  it  meant  blood.  Aulay  MacNeil  and  Donull  ^Macdonull 
put  down  their  gear,  rose,  and  stood  waiting  for  what  Manus 
would  do. 

"Ho,  there!"  he  cried. 

"Ho-ro!" 

"What  will  you  be  wanting,  Eilanmore?" 

"We  are  wanting  a  word  of  you,  Manus  MacCodrum. 
Will  you  come  ashore  ? ' ' 

' '  If  you  want  a  word  of  me,  you  can  come  to  me. ' ' 

' '  There  is  no  boat  here. ' ' 

"I  '11  send  the  hata-heag.'^ 

When  he  had  spoken,  Manus  asked  Donull,  the  younger  of 
his  mates,  a  lad  of  seventeen,  to  row  to  the  shore. 

"And  bring  back  no  more  than  one  man,"  he  added, 
"whether  it  be  Eilanmore  himself  or  Gloom-mhic-Achanna." 

The  rope  of  the  small  boat  was  unfastened,  and  Donull 
rowed  it  swiftly  through  the  moonshine.     The  passing  of  a 


256  THE  d1n-NAN-R5N 

cloud  dusked  the  shore,  but  they  saw  him  throw  a  rope  for 
the  guiding  of  the  boat  alongside  the  ledge  of  the  landing- 
place;  then  the  sudden  darkening  obscured  the  vision. 
Donull  must  be  talking,  they  thought,  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes elapsed  without  sign,  but  at  last  the  boat  put  off  again, 
and  with  two  figures  only.  Doubtless  the  lad  had  had  to 
argue  against  the  coming  of  both  Marcus  and  Gloom. 

This,  in  truth,  was  what  Donull  had  done.  But  while  he 
was  speaking  Marcus  was  staring  fixedly  beyond  him. 

* '  Who  is  it  that  is  there  ? "  he  asked,  ' '  there,  in  the  stern  ? '  * 

"There  is  no  one  there." 

*'I  thought  I  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man." 

*'Then  it  was  my  shadow,  Eilanmore. " 

Achanna  turned  to  his  brother. 

"I  see  a  man's  death  there  in  the  boat." 

Gloom  quailed  for  a  moment,  then  laughed  low. 

''I  see  no  death  of  a  man  sitting  in  the  boat,  ]\Iarcus,  but 
if  I  did  I  am  thinking  it  would  dance  to  the  air  of  the  'Dan- 
nan-Ron,'  which  is  more  than  the  wraith  of  you  or  me  would 
do." 

"It  is  not  a  wraith  I  was  seeing,  but  the  death  of  a  man. ' ' 

Gloom  whispered,  and  his  brother  nodded  sullenly.  The 
next  moment  a  heavy  muffler  was  round  Donull 's  mouth ;  and 
before  he  could  resist,  or  even  guess  what  had  happened,  he 
was  on  his  face  on  the  shore,  bound  and  gagged.  A  minute 
later  the  oars  were  taken  by  Gloom,  and  the  boat  moved 
swiftly  out  of  the  inner  haven. 

As  it  drew  near  Manus  stared  at  it  intently. 

"That  is  not  Donull  that  is  rowing,  Aulay!" 

"No:  it  will  be  Gloom  Achanna,  I  'm  thinking." 

MacCodrum  started.  If  so,  that  other  figure  at  the  stern 
was  too  big  for  Donull.  The  cloud  passed  just  as  the  boat 
came  alongside.  The  rope  was  made  secure,  and  then  Marcus 
and  Gloom  sprang  on  board. 

"Where  is  Donull  MacDonuU?"  demanded  Manus  sharply. 

Marcus  made  no  reply,  so  Gloom  answered  for  him. 

"He  has  gone  up  to  the  house  with  a  message  to  Anne-nic- 
Gilleasbuig. " 


FIONA  MACLEOD  25? 

*'And  what  will  that  message  be?" 

"That  Manus  MacCodrum  has  sailed  away  from  Eilan- 
more,  and  will  not  see  her  again." 

MacCodrum  laughed.     It  was  a  low,  ugly  laugh. 

"Sure,  Gloom  Achanna,  you  should  be  taking  that  feadan 
of  yours  and  playing  the  Cod-hail-nan-Pairtean,  for  1  'm 
thinkin'  the  crabs  are  gathering  about  the  rocks  down  below 
us,  an'  laughing  wi'  their  claws." 

"Well,  and  that  is  a  true  thing,"  Gloom  replied  slowly 
and  quietly.  "Yes,  for  sure  I  might,  as  you  say,  be  playing 
the  'Meeting  of  the  Crabs.'  Perhaps,"  he  added,  as  by  a 
sudden  afterthought,  "perhaps,  though  it  is  a  calm  night,  you 
will  be  hearing  the  comh-thonn.  The  'Slapping  of  the  Waves' 
is  a  better  thing  to  be  hearing  than  the  'Meeting  of  the 
Crabs.'  " 

"If  I  hear  the  comh-thonn  it  is  not  in  the  way  you  will 
be  meaning,  Gloom-mhic- Achanna.  'T  is  not  the  'Up  Sail  and 
Good-bye'  they  will  be  saying,  but  'Home  wi'  the  Bride.'  " 

Here  Marcus  intervened. 

"Let  us  be  having  no  more  words,  Manus  MacCodrum. 
The  girl  Anne  is  not  for  you.  Gloom  is  to  be  her  man.  So 
get  you  hence.  If  you  will  be  going  quiet,  it  is  quiet  we  will 
be.  If  you  have  your  feet  on  this  thing,  then  you  will  be 
having  that  too  which  I  saw  in  the  boat." 

"And  what  was  it  you  saw  in  the  boat,  Achanna?" 

"The  death  of  a  man." 

"So — .  And  now"  (this  after  a  prolonged  silence,  wherein 
the  four  men  stood  facing  each  other,  "is  it  a  blood-matter  if 
not  of  peace?" 

"Ay.  Go,  if  you  are  wise.  If  not,  'tis  your  own  death 
you  will  be  making." 

There  was  a  flash  as  of  summer  lightning.  A  bluish  flame 
seemed  to  leap  through  the  moonshine.  Marcus  reeled,  with 
a  gasping  cry;  then,  leaning  back,  till  his  face  blenched  in 
the  moonlight,  his  knees  gave  way.  As  he  fell,  he  turned 
half  round.  The  long  knife  which  IManus  had  hurled  at  him 
had  not  penetrated  his  breast  more  than  an  inch  at  most,  but 
as  he  fell  on  the  deck  it  was  driven  into  him  up  to  the  hilt. 


258  THE  DAN-NAN-RON 

In  the  blank  silence  that  followed,  the  three  men  could 
hear  a  sound  like  the  ebb-tide  in  sea-weed.  It  was  the  gurgling 
of  the  bloody  froth  in  the  lungs  of  the  dead  man. 

The  first  to  speak  was  his  brother,  and  then  only  when  thin 
reddish-white  foam-bubbles  began  to  burst  from  the  blue 
lips  of  Marcus. 

"It  is  murder." 

He  spoke  low,  but  it  was  like  the  surf  of  breakers  in  the 
ears  of  those  who  heard. 

"You  have  said  one  part  of  a  true  word.  Gloom  Achanna. 
It  is  murder — that  you  and  he  came  here  for!" 

"The  death  of  Marcus  Achanna  is  on  you,  Manus  Mac- 
Codrum. ' ' 

"So  be  it,  as  between  yourself  and  me,  or  between  all  of 
your  blood  and  me ;  though  Aulay  MacNeil,  as  well  as  you,  can 
witness  that  though  in  self-defence  I  threw  the  knife  at 
Achanna,  it  was  his  own  doing  that  drove  it  into  him." 

"You  can  whisper  that  to  the  rope  when  it  is  round  your 
neck. ' ' 

"And  what  will  you  be  doing  now,  Gloom-mhic-Achanna ? " 

For  the  first  time  Gloom  shifted  uneasily.  A  swift  glance 
revealed  to  him  the  awkward  fact  that  the  boat  trailed  behind 
the  Luath,  so  that  he  could  not  leap  into  it,  while  if  he  turned 
to  haul  it  close  by  the  rope  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  two 
men. 

"I  will  go  in  peace,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Ay,"  was  the  answer,  in  an  equally  quiet  tone,  "in  the 
white  peace." 

Upon  this  menace  of  death  the  two  men  stood  facing  each 
other. 

Achanna  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"You  '11  hear  the  *  Dan-nan-Ron '  the  night  before  you  die, 
Manus  MacCodrum,  and  lest  you  doubt  it  you  11  hear  it 
again  in  your  death-hour." 

**Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan — if  that  be  ordained."  Manus  spoke 
gravely.  His  very  quietude,  however,  boded  ill.  There  was 
no  hope  of  clemency ;  Gloom  knew  that. 

Suddenly  he  laughed  scornfully.     Then,  pointing  with  his 


FIONA  MACLEOD  259 

right  hand  as  if  to  some  one  behind  his  two  adversaries,  he 
cried  out:  "Put  the  death-hand  on  them,  Marcus!  Give 
them  the  Grave ! ' '  Both  men  sprang  aside,  the  heart  of  each 
nigh  upon  bursting.  The  death-touch  of  the  newly  slain  is  an 
awful  thing  to  incur,  for  it  means  that  the  wraith  can  transfer 
all  its  evil  to  the  person  touched. 

The  next  moment  there  was  a  heavy  splash.  Manus  real- 
ised that  it  was  no  more  than  a  ruse,  and  that  Gloom  had 
escaped.  With  feverish  haste  he  hauled  in  the  small  boat, 
leaped  into  it,  and  began  at  once  to  row  so  as  to  intercept 
his  enemy. 

Achanna  rose  once,  between  him  and  the  Luath.  Mac- 
Codrum  crossed  the  oars  in  the  thole-pins  and  seized  the  boat- 
hook. 

The  swimmer  kept  straight  for  him.  Suddenly  he  dived. 
In  a  flash,  Manus  knew  that  Gloom  was  going  to  rise  under 
the  boat,  seize  the  keel,  and  upset  him,  and  thus  probably  be 
able  to  grip  him  from  above.  There  was  time  and  no  more 
to  leap ;  and,  indeed,  scarce  had  he  plunged  into  the  sea  ere 
the  boat  swung  right  over,  Achanna  clambering  over  it  the 
next  moment. 

At  first  Gloom  could  not  see  where  his  foe  was.  He 
crouched  on  the  upturned  craft,  and  peered  eagerly  into  the 
moonlit  water.  All  at  once  a  black  mass  shot  out  of  the 
shadow  between  him  and  the  smack.  This  black  mass  laughed 
— the  same  low,  ugly  laugh  that  had  preceded  the  death  of 
Marcus. 

He  who  was  in  turn  the  swimmer  was  now  close.  When 
a  fathom  away  he  leaned  back  and  began  to  tread  water 
steadily.  In  his  right  hand  he  grasped  the  boat-hook.  The 
man  in  the  boat  knew  that  to  stay  where  he  was  meant  cer- 
tain death.  He  gathered  himself  together  like  a  crouching 
cat.  Manus  kept  treading  the  water  slowly,  but  with  the 
hook  ready  so  that  the  sharp  iron  spike  at  the  end  of  it 
should  transfix  his  foe  if  he  came  at  him  with  a  leap.  Now 
and  again  he  laughed.  Then  in  his  low  sweet  voice,  but 
brokenly  at  times  between  his  deep  breathings,  he  began 
to  sing: 


260  THE  d1n-NA^^-r6n 

The  tide  was  dark,  an'  heavy  with  the  burden  that  it  bore; 

1  heard  it  talkin',  whisperin',  upon  the  weedy  shore; 

Each  wave  that  stirred  the  sea-weed  was  like  a  closing'  door; 

'T  is  closing  doors  they  hear  at  last  who  hear  no  more,  no  more. 

My  Grief, 
No  more! 

The  tide  was  in  the  salt  sea-weed,  and  like  a  knife  it  tore ; 
The  wild  sea-wind  went  moaning,  sooing,  moaning  o'er  and  o'er,* 
The  deep  sea-heart  was  brooding  deep  upon  its  ancient  lore — 
I  heard  the  sob,  the  sooing  sob,  the  dying  sob  at  its  core, 

My  Grief, 
Its  core! 

The  white  sea-waves  were  wan  and  gray  its  ashy  lips  before, 
The  yeast  within  its  ravening  mouth  was  red  with  streaming  gore ; 
0  red  sea-weed,  0  red  sea-waves,  0  hollow  baffled  roar, 
Since  one  thou  hast,  0  dark  dim  Sea,  why  callest  thou  for  more. 

My  Grief, 
For  more! 

In  the  quiet  moonlight  the  chant,  with  its  long,  slov^ 
cadences,  sung  as  no  other  man  in  the  isles  could  sing  it, 
sounded  sweet  and  remote  beyond  words  to  tell.  The  glit- 
tering shine  was  upon  the  water  of  the  haven,  and  moved 
in  waving  lines  of  fire  along  the  stone  ledges.  Sometimes  a 
fish  rose,  and  split  a  ripple  of  pale  gold ;  or  a  sea-nettle  swam 
to  the  surface,  and  turned  its  blue  or  greenish  globe  of  living 
jelly  to  the  moon  dazzle. 

The  man  in  the  water  ma^e  a  sudden  stop  in  his  treading 
and  listened  intently.  Then  once  more  the  phosphorescent 
light  gleamed  about  his  slow-moving  shoulders.  In  a  louder 
chanting  voice  came  once  again: 

Each  wave  that  stirs  the  sea-weed  is  like  a  closing  door; 
'T  is  closing  doors  they  hear  at  last  who  hear  no  more — no  more, 
"*  My  Grief, 

No  more! 

Yes,  his  quick  ears  had  caught  the  inland  strain  of  a  voice 
he  knew.  Soft  and  white  as  the  moonshine  came  Anne's 
singing  as  she  passed  along  the  corrie  leading  to  the  haven. 


FIONA  MACLEOD  261 

In  vain  his  travelling  gaze  sought  her;  she  was  still  in  the 
shadow,  and,  besides,  a  slow  drifting  cloud  obscured  the  moon- 
light. When  he  looked  back  again  a  stifled  exclamation  came 
from  his  lips.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  Gloom  Achanna.  He 
had  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  boat,  and  was  now  either 
behind  it,  or  had  dived  beneath  it,  or  was  swimming  under 
water  this  way  or  that.  If  only  the  cloud  would  sail  by, 
muttered  Manus,  as  he  held  himself  in  readiness  for  an  at- 
tack from  beneath  or  behind.  As  the  dusk  lightened,  he  swam 
slowly  toward  the  boat,  and  then  swiftly  round  it.  There  was 
no  one  there.  He  climbed  on  to  the  keel,  and  stood,  leaning 
forward,  as  a  salmon-leisterer  by  torchlight,  with  his  spear- 
pointed  boat-hook  raised.  Neither  below  nor  beyond  could 
he  discern  any  shape.  A  whispered  call  to  Aulay  ]MacNeil 
showed  that  he,  too,  saw  nothing.  Gloom  must  have  swooned, 
and  sunk  deep  as  he  slipped  through  the  water.  Perhaps  the 
dog-fish  were  already  darting  about  him. 

Going  behind  the  boat  Manus  guided  it  back  to  the  smack. 
It  was  not  long  before,  with  MacNeil's  help,  he  righted  the 
punt.  One  oar  had  drifted  out  of  sight,  but  as  there  was  a 
sculling-hole  in  the  stern  that  did  not  matter. 

''What  shall  we  do  with  it?"  he  muttered,  as  he  stood  at 
last  by  the  corpse  of  Marcus. 

' '  This  is  a  bad  night  for  us,  Aulay ! ' ' 

**Bad  it  is ;  but  let  us  be  seeing  it  is  not  worse.     I  'm  think- 
ing we  should  have  left  the  boat. ' ' 
And  for  why  that?" 

We  could  say  that  Marcus  Achanna  and  Gloom  Achanna 
left  us  again,  and  that  we  saw  no  more  of  them  nor  of  our 
boat." 

MacCodrum  pondered  a  while.  The  sound  of  voices,  borne 
faintly  across  the  water,  decided  him.  Probably  Anne  and 
the  lad  Donull  were  talking.  He  slipped  into  the  boat,  and 
with  a  sail-knife  soon  ripped  it  here  and  there.  It  filled,  and 
then,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  a  great  ballast-stone  which 
Aulay  had  first  handed  to  his  companion,  and  surging  with 
a  foot-thrust  from  the  latter,  it  sank. 


1 1 


262  THE  DAN-NAN-RON 

*'We  11  hide  the — the  man  there — behind  the  windlass, 
below  the  spare  sail,  till  we  're  out  at  sea,  Aulay.  Quick, 
give  me  a  hand ! ' ' 

It  did  not  take  the  two  men  long  to  lift  the  corpse,  and 
do  as  Manus  had  suggested.  They  had  scarce  accomplished 
this,  when  Anne's  voice  came  hailing  silver-sweet  across  the 
water. 

"With  death-white  face  and  shaking  limbs,  MacCodrum  stood 
holding  the  mast,  while  with  a  loud  voice,  so  firm  and  strong 
that  Aulay  MacNeil  smiled  below  his  fear,  he  asked  if  the 
Achannas  were  back  yet,  and  if  so  for  Donull  to  row  out  at 
once,  and  she  with  him  if  she  would  come. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  thereafter  that  Anne  rowed  out 
toward  the  Luath.  She  had  gone  at  last  along  the  shore  to 
a  creek  where  one  of  Marcus 's  boats  was  moored  and  returned 
with  it.  Having  taken  Donull  on  board,  she  made  way  with 
all  speed,  fearful  lest  Gloom  or  Marcus  should  intercept  her. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  explain  how  she  had  laughed  at 
Seumas's  vain  efforts  to  detain  her,  and  had  come  down  to 
the  haven.  As  she  approached,  she  heard  Manus  singing,  and 
so  had  herself  broken  into  a  song  she  knew  he  loved.  Then, 
by  the  water-edge  she  had  come  upon  Donull  lying  upon  his 
back,  bound  and  gagged.  After  she  had  released  him  they 
waited  to  see  what  would  happen,  but  as  in  the  moonlight 
they  could  not  see  any  small  boat  come  in,  bound  to  or  from 
the  smack,  she  had  hailed  to  know  if  Manus  were  there. 

On  his  side  he  said  briefly  that  the  two  Achannas  had  come 
to  persuade  him  to  leave  without  her.  On  his  refusal  they 
had  departed  again,  uttering  threats  against  her  as  well  as 
himself.  He  heard  their  quarrelling  voices  as  they  rowed 
into  the  gloom,  but  could  not  see  them  at  last  because  of  the 
obscured  moonlight. 

*'And  now,  Ann-mochree, '  ^  he  added,  **is  it  coming  with 
me  you  are,  and  just  as  you  are?  Sure,  you  '11  never  repent 
it,  and  you  '11  have  all  you  want  that  I  can  give.  Dear  of 
my  heart,  say  that  you  will  be  coming  away  this  night  of 
the  nights !  By  the  Black  Stone  on  Tcolmkill  I  swear  it,  and 
by  the  Sun,  and  by  the  Moon,  and  by  Himself!" 


FIONA  MACLEOD  263 

"I  am  trusting  you,  Manus  dear.  Sure  it  is  not  for  me 
to  be  going  back  to  that  house  after  what  has  been  done  and 
said.     I  go  with  you,  now  and  always,  God  save  us." 

"Well,  dear  lass  o'  my  heart,  it  's  farewell  to  Eilanmore 
it  is,  for  by  the  Blood  of  the  Cross  I  '11  never  land  on  it 
again ! ' ' 

"And  that  will  be  no  sorrow  to  me,  Manus,  my  home!" 

And  this  was  the  way  that  my  friend,  Anne  Gillespie,  left 
Eilanmore  to  go  to  the  isles  of  the  west. 

It  was  a  fair  sailing,  in  the  white  moonshine,  with  a  whisper- 
ing breeze  astern.  Anne  leaned  against  Manus,  dreaming  her 
dream.  The  lad  Donull  sat  drowsing  at  the  helm.  Forward, 
Aulay  MacNeil,  with  his  face  set  against  the  moonshine  to  the 
west,  brooded  dark. 

Though  no  longer  was  land  in  sight,  and  there  was  peace 
among  the  deeps  of  the  quiet  stars  and  upon  the  sea,  the 
shadow  of  fear  was  upon  the  face  of  Manus  MacCodrum. 

This  might  well  have  been  because  of  the  as  yet  unburied 
dead  that  lay  beneath  the  spare  sail  by  the  windlass.  The 
dead  man,  however,  did  not  affright  him.  What  went  moan- 
ing in  his  heart,  and  sighing  and  calling  in  his  brain,  was  a 
faint  falling  echo  he  had  heard,  as  the  Luath  glided  slow  out 
of  the  haven.  Whether  from  the  water  or  from  the  shore 
he  could  not  tell,  but  he  heard  the  wild,  fantastic  air  of  the 
"Dan-nan  Ron,"  as  he  had  heard  it  that  very  night  upon  the 
feadan  of  Gloom  Achanna. 

it  was  his  hope  that  his  ears  had  played  him  false.  When 
he  glanced  about  him,  and  saw  the  sombre  flame  in  the  eyes 
of  Aulay  MacNeil,  staring  at  him  out  of  the  dusk,  he  knew 
that  which  Oisin  the  son  of  Fionn  cried  in  his  pain:  "his 
soul  swam  in  mist." 

II 

For  all  the  evil  omens,  the  marriage  of  Anne  and  Manus 
MacCodrum  went  well.  He  was  more  silent  than  of  yore, 
and  men  avoided  rather  than  sought  him ;  but  he  was  happy 
with  Anne,  and  content  with  his  two  mates,  who  were  now 


264  THE  d1n-NAN-r5n 

Galium  MacCodrum  and  Ranald  MacRanald.  The  youth 
Donull  had  bettered  himself  by  joining  a  Skye  skipper  who 
was  a  kinsman,  and  Aulay  MacNeil  had  surprised  every  one, 
except  Manus,  by  going  away  as  a  seaman  on  board  one  of 
the  Loch  line  of  ships  which  sail  for  Australia  from  the  Clyde. 

Anne  never  knew  what  had  happened,  though  it  is  possible 
she  suspected  somewhat.  All  that  was  known  to  her  was 
that  Marcus  and  Gloom  Achanna  had  disappeared,  and  were 
supposed  to  have  been  drowned.  There  was  now  no  Achanna 
upon  Eilanmore,  for  Seumas  had  taken  a  horror  of  the  place 
and  his  loneliness.  As  soon  as  it  was  commonly  admitted 
that  his  two  brothers  must  have  drifted  out  to  sea,  and  been 
drowned,  or  at  best  picked  up  by  some  ocean-going  ship,  he 
disposed  of  the  island-farm,  and  left  Eilanmore  forever.  All 
this  confirmed  the  thing  said  among  the  islanders  of  the 
west,  that  old  Robert  Achanna  had  brought  a  curse  with 
him.  Blight  and  disaster  had  visited  Eilanmore  over  and 
over  in  the  many  years  he  had  held  it,  and  death,  sometimes 
tragic  or  mysterious,  had  overtaken  six  of  his  seven  sons, 
while  the  youngest  bore  upon  his  brows  the  *'dusk  of  the 
shadow."  True,  none  knew  for  certain  that  three  out  of  the 
six  were  dead,  but  few  for  a  moment  believed  in  the  possibility 
that  Alasdair  and  Marcus  and  Gloom  were  alive.  On  the 
night  when  Anne  had  left  the  island  with  Manus  MacCodrum, 
he,  Seumas,  had  heard  nothing  to  alarm  him.  Even  when, 
an  hour  after  she  had  gone  down  to  the  haven,  neither  she 
nor  his  brothers  had  returned,  and  the  Luath  had  put  out  to 
sea,  he  was  not  in  fear  of  any  ill.  Clearly,  Marcus  and  Gloom 
had  gone  away  in  the  smack,  perhaps  determined  to  see  that 
the  girl  was  duly  married  by  priest  or  minister. 

He  would  have  perturbed  himself  a  little  for  days  to  come, 
but  for  a  strange  thing  that  happened  that  night.  He  had 
returned  to  the  house  because  of  a  chill  that  was  upon  him, 
and  convinced,  too,  that  all  had  sailed  in  the  Luath.  He  was 
sitting  brooding  by  the  peat-fire,  when  he  was  startled  by  a 
sound  at  the  window  at  the  back  of  the  room.  A  few  bars  of 
a  familiar  air  struck  painfully  upon  his  ear,  though  played 
so  low  that  they  were  just  audible.     What  could  it  be  but  the 


FIONA  MACLEOD  265 

' '  Dan-nan-Ron, ' '  and  who  would  be  playing  that  but  Gloom  1 
What  did  it  mean?  Perhaps  after  all,  it  was  fantasy  only, 
and  there  was  no  feadan  out  there  in  the  dark.  He  was  pon- 
dering this  when,  still  low  but  louder  and  sharper  than  be- 
fore, there  rose  and  fell  the  strain  which  he  hated,  and  Gloom 
never  played  before  him,  that  of  the  Ddvsa-na  mairv,  the 
''Dance  of  the  Dead."  Swiftly  and  silently  he  rose  and 
crossed  the  room.  In  the  dark  shadows  cast  by  the  byre  he 
could  see  nothing,  but  the  music  ceased.  He  went  out,  and 
searched  everywhere,  but  found  no  one.  So  he  returned, 
took  down  the  Holy  Book,  with  awed  heart,  and  read  slowly 
till  peace  came  upon  him,  soft  and  sweet  as  the  warmth  of 
the  peat-glow. 

But  as  for  Anne,  she  had  never  even  this  hint  that  one  of 
the  supposed  dead  might  be  alive,  or  that,  being  dead,  Gloom 
might  yet  touch  a  shadowy  feadan  into  a  wild  remote  air  of 
the  grave. 

When  month  after  month  went  by,  and  no  hint  of  ill  came 
to  break  upon  their  peace,  Manus  grew  light-hearted  again. 
Once  more  his  songs  were  heard  as  he  came  back  from  the 
fishing,  or  loitered  ashore  mending  his  nets.  A  new  happi- 
ness was  nigh  to  them,  for  Anne  was  with  child.  True,  there 
was  fear  also,  for  the  girl  was  not  well  at  the  time  when 
her  labor  was  near,  and  grew  weaker  daily.  There  came 
a  day  when  Manus  had  to  go  to  Loch  Boisdale  in  South  Uist : 
and  it  was  with  pain  and  something  of  foreboding  that  he 
sailed  away  from  Berneray  in  the  Sound  of  Harris,  where  he 
lived.  It  was  on  the  third  night  that  he  returned.  He  was 
met  by  Katreen  MacRanald,  the  wife  of  his  mate,  with  the 
news  that  on  the  morrow  after  his  going  Anne  had  sent  for 
the  priest  who  was  stajdng  at  Loch  Maddy,  for  she  had  felt 
the  coming  of  death.  It  was  that  very  evening  she  died, 
and  took  the  child  with  her. 

Manus  heard  as  one  in  a  dream.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  tide  was  ebbing  in  his  heart,  and  a  cold,  sleety  rain  falling, 
falling  through  a  mist  in  his  brain. 

Sorrow  lay  heavily  upon  him.  After  the  earthing  of  her 
whom  he  loved,  he  went  to  and  fro  solitary :  often  crossing  the 


266  THE  DAK-NAN-RON- 

Narrows  and  going  to  the  old  Pictish  Towre  under  the  shadow 
of  Ban  Breac.  He  would  not  go  upon  the  sea,  but  let  his 
kinsman  Galium  do  as  he  liked  with  the  Luath. 

Now  and  again  Father  Allan  MacNeil  sailed  northward  to 
see  him.  Each  time  he  departed  sadder.  "The  man  is  going 
mad,  I  fear,"  he  said  to  Galium,  the  last  time  he  saw  Manus. 

The  long  summer  nights  brought  peace  and  beauty  to  the 
isles.  It  was  a  great  herring-year,  and  the  moon-fishing  was 
unusually  good.  All  the  Uist  men  who  lived  by  the  sea-har- 
vest were  in  their  boats  whenever  they  could.  The  pollack, 
the  dog-fish,  the  otters,  and  the  seals,  with  flocks  of  sea-fowl 
beyond  number,  shared  in  the  common  joy.  Manus  Mac- 
Godrum  alone  paid  no  heed  to  herring  or  mackerel.  He  was 
often  seen  striding  along  the  shore,  and  more  than  once  had 
been  heard  laughing;  sometimes,  too,  he  was  come  upon  at 
low  tide  by  the  great  Reef  of  Berneray,  singing  wild  strange 
runes  and  songs,  or  crouching  upon  a  rock  and  brooding  dark. 

The  midsummer  moon  found  no  man  on  Berneray  except 
MacGodrum,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Black,  the  minister  of  the  Free 
Kirk,  and  an  old  man  named  Anndra  Mclan.  On  the  night 
before  the  last  day  of  the  middle  month,  Anndra  was  re- 
proved by  the  minister  for  saying  that  he  had  seen  a  man  rise 
out  of  one  of  the  graves  in  the  kirk-yard,  and  steal  down  by 
the  stone-dykes  towards  Balnahunnur-sa-mona,^  where  Manus 
MacGodrum  lived. 

The  dead  do  not  rise  and  walk,  Anndra.'* 
That  may  be,  maigstir,  but  it  may  have  been  the  Watcher 
of  the  Dead.     Sure  it  is  not  three  weeks  since  Padruig  Mc- 
Alistair  was  laid  beneath  the  green  mound.     He  '11  be  weary- 
ing for  another  to  take  his  place." 

' '  Hoots,  man,  that  is  an  old  superstition.  The  dead  do  not 
rise  and  walk,  I  tell  you." 

"It  is  right  you  may  be,  maigstir,  but  I  heard  of  this  from 
my  father,  that  was  old  before  you  were  young,  and  from  his 
father  before  him.  When  the  last-buried  is  weary  with  be- 
ing the  Watcher  of  the  Dead  he  goes  about  from  place  to 
place   till   he   sees  man,   woman,   or   child   with   the   death- 

1  Baille-'na-aonar^sa  mhonadh,  "the  solitary  farm  on  the  hill-slope." 


i  ( I 
a  I 


FIONA  MACLEOD  267 

shadow  in  the  eyes,  and  then  he  goes  back  to  his  grave  and 
lies  down  in  peace,  for  his  vigil  it  will  be  over  now." 

The  roinister  laughed  at  the  folly,  and  went  into  his  house 
to  make  ready  for  the  Sacrament  that  was  to  be  on  the 
morrow.  Old  Anndra,  however,  was  uneasy.  After  the 
porridge,  he  went  down  through  the  gloaming  to  Balnahun- 
nur-sa-mona.  He  meant  to  go  in  and  warn  Manus  Mac- 
Codrum.  But  when  he  got  to  the  west  wall,  and  stood  near 
the  open  window,  he  heard  Manus  speaking  in  a  loud  voice, 
though  he  was  alone  in  the  room. 

^^B'ionganntach  do  ghrddh  dhomhsa,  a'  toirt  harrachd  air 
grddh  nam  han!^',  .  .^ 

This,  Manus  cried  in  a  voice  quivering  with  pain.  Anndra 
stopped  still,  fearful  to  intrude,  fearful  also,  perhaps,  to  see 
some  one  there  beside  MacCodrum,  whom  eyes  should  not  see. 
Then  the  voice  rose  into  a  cry  of  agony. 

^'Aoi^ani  dhuit,  ay  an  deigh  dhomh  fas  aosda!*'^ 

With  that,  Anndra  feared  to  stay.  As  he  passed  the  byre 
he  started,  for  he  thought  he  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man.  When 
he  looked  closer  he  could  see  nought,  so  went  his  way,  trem- 
bling and  sore  troubled. 

It  was  dusk  when  Manus  came  out.  He  saw  that  it  was  to 
be  a  cloudy  night ;  and  perhaps  it  was  this  that,  after  a  brief 
while,  made  him  turn  in  his  aimless  walk  and  go  back  to  the 
house.  He  was  sitting  before  the  flaming  heart  of  the  peats, 
brooding  in  his  pain,  when  suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Loud  and  clear,  and  close  as  though  played  under  the  very 
window  of  the  room,  came  the  cold,  white  notes  of  an  oaten 
flute.  Ah,  too  well  he  knew  that  wild,  fantastic  air.  Who 
could  it  be  but  Gloom  Achanna,  playing  upon  his  f eadau ;  and 
what  air  of  all  airs  could  that  be  but  the  "Dan-nan-Ron"? 

Was  it  the  dead  man,  standing  there  unseen  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Grave?  Was  Marcus  beside  him,  INIarcus  with  the  knife 
still  thrust  up  to  the  hilt,  and  the  lung-foam  upon  his  lips? 
Can  the  sea  give  up  its  dead?  Can  there  be  strain  of  any 
f eadan  that  ever  was  made  of  man,  there  in  the  Silence  ? 

1  "Thy  lovo  to  me  was  wonderful,  surpassing  the  love  of  women." 
-  '1  shall  worship  thee,  ay,  even  after  I  have  become  old." 


268  THE  d1n-NAN-r6n 

In  vain  Manus  MacCodrum  tortured  himself  thus.  Too 
well  he  knew  that  he  had  heard  the  ' '  Dan -nan-Ron, ' '  and  that 
no  other  than  Gloom  Aehanna  was  the  player. 

Suddenly  an  access  of  fury  wrought  him  to  madness.  With 
an  abrupt  lilt  the  tune  swung  into  the  Davsd-na  mairv,  and 
thence,  after  a  few  seconds,  and  in  a  moment,  into  that  mys- 
terious and  horrible  Codhail-nan-Pairtean  which  none  but 
Gloom  played. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  now,  nor  as  to  what  was  meant  by 
the  muttering,  jerking  air  of  the  "Gathering  of  the  Crabs." 

With  a  savage  cry  Manus  snatched  up  a  long  dirk  from  its 
place  by  the  chimney,  and  rushed  out. 

There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  sea-gull  even  in  front ;  so  he 
sped  round  by  the  byre.  Neither  was  anything  unusual  dis- 
coverable there. 

"Sorrow  upon  me,"  he  cried;  "man  or  wraith,  I  will  be 
putting  it  to  the  dirk ! ' ' 

But  there  was  no  one ;  nothing ;  not  a  sound. 

Then,  at  last,  with  a  listless  droop  of  his  arms,  MacCodrum 
turned  and  went  into  the  house  again.  He  remembered  what 
Gloom  Aehanna  had  said;  *'You  'II  hear  the  ^ Ddn-nan-Rdn^ 
the  night  before  you  die,  Manus  MacCodrum,  and  lest  you 
doiiht  it,  you  ^11  hear  it  in  your  death-hour.' ' 

He  did  not  stir  from  the  fire  for  three  hours ;  then  he  rose, 
and  went  over  to  his  bed  and  lay  down  without  undressing. 

He  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  listening  and  watching.  The 
peats  burned  low,  and  at  last  there  was  scarce  a  flicker  along 
the  floor.  Outside  he  could  hear  the  wind  moaning  upon  the 
sea.  By  a  strange  rustling  sound  he  knew  that  the  tide  was 
ebbing  across  the  great  reef  that  runs  out  from  Berneray. 
By  midnight  the  clouds  had  gone.  The  moon  shone  clear  and 
full.  When  he  heard  the  clock  strike  in  its  worm-eaten, 
rickety  case,  he  sat  up,  and  listened  intently.  He  could  hear 
nothing.  No  shadow  stirred.  Surely  if  the  wraith  of  Gloom 
Aehanna  were  waiting  for  him  it  would  make  some  sign,  now, 
in  the  dead  of  night. 

An  hour  passed.  Manus  rose,  crossed  the  room  on  tip-toe, 
and  soundlessly  opened  the  door.     The  salt  wind  blew  fresh 


FIONA  MACLEOD  269 

against  his  face.  The  smell  of  the  shore,  of  wet  sea-wrack  and 
pungent  bog-myrtle,  of  foam  and  moving  water,  came  sweet  to 
his  nostrils.  Pie  heard  a  skua  calling  from  the  rocky  promon- 
tory. From  the  slopes  behind,  the  wail  of  a  moon-restless  lap- 
wing rose  and  fell  mournfully. 

Crouching,  and  with  slow,  stealthy  step,  he  stole  round  by 
the  seaward  wall.  At  the  dyke  he  stopped,  and  scrutinised 
it  on  each  side.  He  could  see  for  several  hundred  yards,  and 
there  was  not  even  a  sheltering  sheep.  Then,  soundlessly  as 
ever,  he  crept  close  to  the  byre.  He  put  his  ear  to  chink  after 
chink :  but  not  a  stir  of  a  shadow  even.  As  a  shadow,  himself, 
he  drifted  lightly  to  the  front,  past  the  hay-rick;  then,  with 
swift  glances  to  right  and  left,  opened  the  door  and  entered. 
As  he  did  so,  he  stood  as  though  frozen.  Surely,  he  thought, 
that  was  a  sound  as  of  a  step,  out  there  by  the  hay-rick.  A 
terror  was  at  his  heart.  In  front,  the  darkness  of  the  byre, 
with  God  knows  what  dread  thing  awaiting  him;  behind,  a 
mysterious  walker  in  the  night,  swift  to  take  him  unawares. 
The  trembling  that  came  upon  him  was  nigh  overmastering. 
At  last,  with  a  great  effort,  he  moved  towards  the  ledge,  where 
he  kept  a  candle.  With  shaking  hand  he  struck  a  light.  The 
empty  byre  looked  ghostly  and  fearsome  in  the  flickering 
gloom.  But  there  was  no  one,  nothing.  He  was  about  to 
turn,  when  a  rat  ran  along  a  loose-hanging  beam,  and  stared  at 
him,  or  at  the  yellow  shine.  He  saw  its  black  eyes  shining  like 
peat-water  in  moonlight. 

The  creature  was  curious  at  first,  then  indifferent.  At  last, 
it  began  to  squeak,  and  then  made  a  swift  scratching  with  its 
fore-paws.  Once  or  twice  came  an  answering  squeak;  a 
faint  rustling  was  audible  here  and  there  among  the  straw. 

With  a  sudden  spring  Manus  seized  the  beast.  Even  in  the 
second  in  which  he  raised  it  to  his  mouth  and  scrunched  its 
back  with  his  strong  teeth,  it  bit  him  severely.  He  let  his 
hands  drop,  and  groped  furtively  in  the  darkness.  With 
stooping  head  he  shook  the  last  breath  out  of  the  rat,  holding 
it  with  his  front  teeth,  with  back-curled  lips.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  dropped  the  dead  thing,  trampled  upon  it,  and  burst 
out  laughing.     There  was  a  scurrying  of  pattering  feet,  a 


270  THE  DAN-NAN-R(5n 

rustling  of  straw.  Then  silence  again.  A  draught  from  the 
door  had  caught  the  flame  and  extinguished  it.  In  the  silence 
and  darkness  MacCodrum  stood,  intent,  but  no  longer  afraid. 
He  laughed  again,  because  it  was  so  easy  to  kill  with  the 
teeth.  The  noise  of  his  laughter  seemed  to  him  to  leap  hither 
and  thither  like  a  shadowy  ape.  He  could  see  it ;  a  blackness 
within  the  darkness.  Once  more  he  laughed.  It  amused 
him  to  see  the  thirig  leaping  about  like  that. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  and  walked  out  into  the  moonlight. 
The  lapwing  was  still  circling  and  wailing.  He  mocked  it, 
with  loud  shrill  pee-weety,  pce-weety,  pee-weet.  The  bird 
swung  waywardly,  alarmed :  its  abrupt  cry,  and  dancing 
flight  aroused  its  fellows.  The  air  was  full  of  the  lamentable 
crying  of  plovers. 

A  sough  of  the  sea  came  inland.  Manus  inhaled  its  breath 
with  a  sigh  of  delight.  A  passion  for  the  running  wave 
was  upon  him.  He  yearned  to  feel  green  water  break  against 
his  breast.  Thirst  and  hunger,  too,  he  felt  at  last,  though  he 
had  known  neither  all  day.  How  cool  and  sweet,  he  thought, 
would  be  a  silver  haddock,  or  even  a  brown-backed  liath,  alive 
and  gleaming,  wet  with  the  sea-water  still  bubbling  in  its 
gills.  It  would  writhe,  just  like  the  rat;  but  then  how  he 
would  throw  his  head  back,  and  toss  the  glittering  thing  up 
into  the  moonlight,  catch  it  on  the  downwhirl  just  as  it  neared 
the  wave  on  whose  crest  he  was,  and  then  devour  it  with  swift 
voracious  gulps ! 

"With  quick,  jerky  steps  he  made  his  way  past  the  landward 
side  of  the  small,  thatch-roofed  cottage.  He  was  about  to 
enter,  when  he  noticed  that  the  door,  which  he  had  left  ajar, 
was  closed.     He  stole  to  the  window  and  glanced  in. 

A  single,  thin,  wavering  moonbeam  flickered  in  the  room. 
But  the  flame  at  the  heart  of  the  peats  had  worked  its  way 
through  the  ash,  and  there  was  now  a  dull  glow,  though  that 
was  within  the  *'smooring,"  and  threw  scarce  more  than  a 
glimmer  into  the  room. 

There  was  enough  light,  however,  for  Manus  MacCodrum  to 
see  that  a  man  sat  on  the  three-legged  stool  before  the  fire. 
His  head  was  bent,  as  though  he  were  listening.     The  face 


FIONA  MACLEOD  271 

was  away  from  the  window.  It  was  his  own  wraith,  of  course ; 
of  that,  Manus  felt  convinced.  What  was  it  doing  there? 
Perhaps  it  had  eaten  the  Holy  Book,  so  that  it  was  beyond  his 
putting  a  i^osad  on  it !  At  the  thought  he  laughed  loud.  The 
shadow-man  leaped  to  his  feet. 

The  next  moment  MacCodrum  swung  himself  on  to  the 
thatched  roof,  and  clambered  from  rope  to  rope,  where  these 
held  down  the  big  stones  which  acted  as  dead-weight  for  the 
thatch,  against  the  fury  of  tempests.  Stone  after  stone  he 
tore  from  its  fastenings  and  hurled  to  the  ground  over  beyond 
the  door.  Then  with  tearing  hands  he  began  to  burrow  an 
opening  in  the  thatch.     All  the  time  he  whined  like  a  beast. 

He  was  glad  the  moon  shone  full  upon  him.  When  he  had 
made  a  big  enough  hole,  he  would  see  the  evil  thing  out  of  the 
grave  that  sat  in  his  room,  and  would  stone  it  to  death. 

Suddenly  he  became  still.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon 
him.  The  thing,  whether  his  own  wraith,  or  the  spirit  of  his 
dead  foe,  or  Gloom  Achanna  himself,  had  begun  to  play,  low 
and  slow,  a  wild  air.  No  piercing,  cold  music  like  that  of  the 
feadan !  Too  well  he  knew  it,  and  those  cool,  white  notes  that 
moved  here  and  there  in  the  darkness  like  snowflakes.  As 
for  the  air,  though  he  slept  till  Judgment  Day  and  heard  but 
a  note  of  it  amidst  all  the  clamor  of  heaven  and  hell,  sure  he 
would  scream  because  of  the  '^  Dan-nan-Ron. " 

The  ''Dan-nan-Ron!"  The  RoinI  the  Seals!  Ah,  what 
was  he  doing  there,  on  the  bitter-weary  land !  Out  there  was 
the  sea.     Safe  would  he  be  in  the  green  waves. 

With  a  leap  he  was  on  the  ground.  Seizing  a  huge  stone, 
he  hurled  it  through  the  window.  Then,  laughing  and  scream- 
ing, he  fled  tow^ards  the  Great  Reef,  along  whose  sides  the  ebb- 
tide gurgled  and  sobbed,  with  glistening  white  foam. 

He  ceased  screaming  or  laughing  as  he  heard  the  "Dan-nan- 
Ron"  behind  him,  faint,  but  following;  sure,  following. 
Bending  low,  he  raced  towards  the  rock-ledges  from  w^hich  ran 
the  reef. 

When  at  last  he  reached  the  extreme  ledge  he  stopped 
abruptly.  Out  on  the  reef  he  saw  from  ten  to  twenty  seals, 
some  swimming  to  and  fro,  others  clinging  to  the  reef,  one  or 


272  THE  DA^-NAN-R5n 

two  making  a  curious  barking  sound,  with  round  heads  lifted 
against  the  moon.  In  one  place  there  was  a  surge  and  lash- 
ing of  water.     Two  bulls  were  fighting  to  the  death. 

With  swift,  stealthy  movements  Manus  unclothed  himself. 
The  damp  had  clotted  the  leathern  thongs  of  his  boots,  and 
he  snarled  with  curled  lip  as  he  tore  at  them.  He  shone  white 
in  the  moonshine,  but  was  sheltered  from  the  sea  by  the  ledge 
behind  which  he  crouched.  ' '  What  did  Gloom  Achanna  mean 
by  that?"  he  muttered  savagely,  as  he  heard  the  nearing  air 
change  into  the  "Dance  of  the  Dead."  For  a  moment  Manus 
was  a  man  again.  He  was  nigh  upon  turning  to  face  his  foe, 
corpse  or  wraith  or  living  body ;  to  spring  at  this  thing  which 
followed  him,  and  tear  it  with  hands  and  teeth.  Then,  once 
more,  the  hated  ' '  Song  of  the  Seals ' '  stole  mockingly  through 
the  night. 

With  a  shiver  he  slipped  into  the  dark  water.  Then  with 
quick,  powerful  strokes  he  was  in  the  moon-flood,  and  swim- 
ming hard  against  it  out  by  the  leeside  of  the  reef. 

So  intent  were  the  seals  upon  the  fight  of  the  two  great 
bulls  that  they  did  not  see  the  swimmer,  or  if  they  did,  took 
him  for  one  of  their  own  people.  A  savage  snarling  and  bark- 
ing and  half -human  crying  came  from  them.  Manus  was 
almost  within  reach  of  the  nearest,  when  one  of  the  combatants 
sank  dead,  with  torn  throat.  The  victor  clambered  on  the 
reef,  and  leaned  high,  swaying  its  great  head  and  shoulders 
to  and  fro.  In  the  moonlight  its  white  fangs  were  like  red 
coral.     Its  blinded  eyes  ran  with  gore. 

There  was  a  rush,  a  rapid  leaping  and  swirling,  as  Manus 
surged  in  among  the  seals,  which  were  swimming  round  the 
place  where  the  slain  bull  had  sunk. 

The  laughter  of  this  long,  white  seal  terrified  them. 

When  his  knees  struck  against  a  rock,  MacCodrum  groped 
with  his  arms,  and  hauled  himself  out  of  the  water. 

From  rock  to  rock  and  ledge  to  ledge  he  went,  with  a  fan- 
tastic, dancing  motion,  his  body  gleaming  foam-white  in  the 
moonshine. 

As  he  pranced  and  trampled  along  the  weedy  ledges,  he  sang 
snatches  of  an  old  rune — the  lost  rune  of  the  MacCodrums 


FTONA  MACLEOD  273 

of  Uist.  The  seals  on  the  rocks  crouched  spell-bound;  those 
slow-swimming  in  the  water  stared  with  brown  unwinking 
eyes,  with  their  small  ears  strained  against  the  sound : 

It  is  I,  Manus  MacCodrum, 

I  am  telling  you  that,  you,  Anndra  of  my  blood, 

And  you,  Neil  my  grandfather,  and  you,  and  you,  and  you ! 

Ay,  ay,  Manus  my  name  is,  Manus  MacManus! 

It  is  I  myself,  and  no  other. 

Your  brother,  0  Seals  of  the  Sea ! 

Give  me  blood  of  the  red  fish, 

And  a  bite  of  the  flying  sgaclan: 

The  green  wave  on  my  belly. 

And  the  foam  in  my  eyes ! 

I  am  your  bull-brother,  0  Bulls  of  the  Sea, 

Bull — better  than  any  of  you,  snarling  bulls ! 

Come  to  me,  mate,  seal  of  the  soft,  furry  womb. 

White  am  I  still,  though  red  shall  I  be, 

Red  with  the  streaming  red  blood  if  any  dispute  me! 

Aoh,  aoh,  aoh,  aro,  aro,  ho-ro ! 

A  man  was  I,  a  seal  am  I, 

My  fangs  churn  the  yellow  foam  from  my  lips: 

Give  way  to  me,  give  way  to  me.  Seals  of  the  Sea ; 

Give  way,  for  I  am  fey  of  the  sea 

And  the  sea-maiden  I  see  there. 

And  my  name,  true,  is  Manus  MacCodrum, 

The  bull-seal  that  was  a  man,  Ara !  Ara ! 

By  this  time  he  was  close  upon  the  great  black  seal,  which 
was  still  monotonously  swaying  its  gory  head,  with  its  sight- 
less eyes  rolling  this  way  and  that.  The  sea-folk  seemed  fas- 
cinated. None  moved,  even  when  the  dancer  in  the  moonshine 
trampled  upon  them. 

When  he  came  within  arm-reach  he  stopped. 

''Are  you  the  Ceann-Cinnidh?"  he  cried. 

"Are  you  the  head  of  this  clan  of  the  sea-folk?" 

The  huge  beast  ceased  its  swaying.  Its  curled  lips  moved 
from  its  fangs. 

* '  Speak,  Seal,  if  there  's  no  curse  upon  you !  Maybe,  now, 
you  '11  be  Anndra  himself,  the  brother  of  my  father !  Speak ! 
H'st — are  you  hearing  thai  music  on  the  shore?  'T  is  the 
'Dan-nan-Ron'!     Death  o'  my  soul,  it  's  the  'Dan-nan-Ron'! 


274  THE  DAN-NAN-R5n 

Aha,  't  is  Gloom  Achanna  out  of  the  Grave.  Back,  beast, 
and  let  me  move  on!" 

With  that,  seeing  the  great  bull  did  not  move,  he  struck  it 
full  in  the  face  with  clenched  fist.  There  was  a  hoarse, 
strangling  roar,  and  the  seal  champion  was  upon  him  with 
lacerating  fangs. 

Manus  swayed  this  way  and  that.  All  he  could  hear  now 
was  the  snarling  and  growling  and  choking  cries  of  the  mad- 
dened seals.  As  he  fell,  they  closed  in  upon  him.  His 
screams  wheeled  through  the  night  like  mad  birds.  With 
desperate  fury  he  struggled  to  free  himself.  The  great  bidl 
pinned  him  to  the  rock ;  a  dozen  others  tore  at  his  white  flesh, 
till  his  spouting  blood  made  the  rocks  scarlet  in  the  white 
shine  of  the  moon. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  still  fought  savagely,  tearing  with  teeth 
and  hands.  Once,  a  red  ir recognisable  mass,  he  staggered  to 
his  knees.  A  wild  cry  burst  from  his  lips,  when  from  the 
shore-end  of  the  reef  came  loud  and  clear  the  lilt  of  the  rune 
of  his  fate. 

The  next  moment  he  was  dragged  down  and  swept  from  the 
reef  into  the  sea.  As  the  torn  and  mangled  body  disappeared 
from  sight,  it  was  amid  a  seething  crowd  of  leaping  and  strug- 
gling seals,  their  eyes  wild  with  affright  and  fury,  their  fangs 
red  with  human  gore. 

And  Gloom  Achanna,  turning  upon  the  reef,  moved  swiftly 
inland,  playing  low  on  his  feadan,  as  he  went. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA 
By  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

No  one  knows  when  stoiy  telling  began.  It  is  as  old  as  the  human 
race.  It  goes  beyond  hisloiy  mto  the  unknown  darkness  of  the 
past.  Some  of  the  stories  we  still  read  originated  far  back  in  primi- 
tive life.  Such  stories,  that  have  been  told  for  many  years,  and  are 
common  to  the  race,  we  call  'Tolk-Lore"  stories. 

Every  Folk-Lore  story  probably  began  in  the  simplest  form. 
Something  happened, — and  someone  tried  to  tell  about  the  event. 
If  the  story  was  interesting  enough  to  repeat,  it  gradually  became 
exaggerated.  Thus  the  germ  of  The  Adventures  of  Simon  and 
Susanna  is  the  common-enough  story  of  a  successful  elopement  in 
which  the  cleverness  of  the  young  people, — of  the  girl  in  particular, 
— eluded  the  pursuing  father.  Their  means  of  making  their  escape 
must  have  been  quite  ordinary,  but  when  the  story  was  told  again 
and  again, — if  this  really  is  a  Folk-Lore  story,  the  cleverness  was 
exaggerated  and  gradually  turned  into  magic. 

In  reading  this  storv  we  come  into  close  touch  with  the  oriirin  of  all 
story  telling.  We  see  one  man,  a  common,  ignorant  man,  telling  a 
story  to  an  interested  listener,  and  undoubtedly  "putting  in  a  few 
extra  touches"  to  make  the  story  more  wonderful.  The  primitive 
stories  must  always  have  been  presented  orally,  and  at  first  to  few 
listeners.  Then  came  the  days  of  story  tellers  for  the  crowd,  and 
finally  the  written  story. 

The  author  of  The  Adventures  of  Simon  and  Susanna,  Joel 
Chandler  Harris,  re-told  many  folk-lore  stories.  He  was  born  in 
Georgia  in  1848,  and  died  there  in  1908.  He  devoted  all  his  mature 
life  to  journalism  and  literature.  His  many  books  about  Uncle 
Remus  presented  that  person  so  clearly  that  the  good-natured  negro 
story  teller  has  almost  ceased  to  be  merely  a  book-character,  and 
has  become  a  living  reality. 

Every  story  that  Mr.  Harris  wrote  has  plot  interest,  but  it  also  has 
pith  and  wisdom. 

THE  CROW  CHILD 
By  MARY  MAPES  DODGE 

The  ordinai*y  "Fairy  Stoi-y"  is  a  developed  form  of  the  "Folk- 
Lore"  story.     Instead  of  having  the  roughness,  and  naive  simplicity 

275 


276  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

characteristic  of  primitive  ways  of  stoiy  telling  it  has  polish,  and 
definite  literary  or  moral  purpose,  it  is  not  a  mere  wonder  stoiy 
told  in  the  first  person  by  some  definite  individual,  and  made  by  the 
exaggeration  of  an  actual  event.  It  is  a  written  rather  than  a 
spoken  story,  based,  in  the  remote  past,  on  some  actual  event,  but 
now  told  in  the  third  person,  and  directed  strongly  to  aii  artistic, 
literary  purpose, — frequently  to  a  moral  purpose.  In  every  way 
the  best  type  of  "Fairy  Stoi-y"  is  a  distinct  advance  towards  devel- 
oped story  telling. 

The  Crow  Child  is  not  an  actual  "Fairy  Story ,'^  but  it  illus- 
trates remarkably  well  the  way  in  which  "Fairy  Stories"  developed. 
Every  event  in  The  Crow  Child  is  strictly  true,  but  much  of  the  story 
appears  to  be  based  on  magic.  A  true  story  of  this  sort,  told  in 
primitive  times,  and  retold  again  and  again,  with  new  emphasis 
placed  on  the  elements  of  wonder,  would  have  developed  into  a  pure 
story  of  wonder, — a  '^Fairy  Story." 

The  author  of  this  original,  and  modem,  "Fairy  Story,"  Mary 
Mapes  Dodge,  was  born  in  New  York  in  1838.  For  many  years  she 
was  the  efficient  editor  of  St.  Nicholas,  a  young  people's  magazine  of 
the  highest  type.  In  addition  to  her  editorial  work  she  wrote  many 
books  for  young  people,  the  most  famous  being  Hans  Brinker,  or 
the  Silver  Skates.     She  died  in  1905. 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  GREAT  BELL 
By  LAFCADIO  HEAEN 

Very  often  the  earliest  stories  are  not  crude  accounts  of  ordinary 
events,  exaggerated  enough  to  be  worthy  of  note.  They  are  poetic 
narratives  founded  on  matters  of  deep  significance  in  the  life  of  a 
people.  All  primitive  people  are  poetic,  because  they  see  the  world 
through  the  eyes  of  emotion  rather  than  of  scientific  understanding. 
They  also  have  an  instinctive  recognition  of  fundamental  nobility. 
Therefore  we  have  such  stories  as  the  legends  of  Hiawatha,  in  which 
an  ideal  man  is  presented,  bringing  benefit  to  his  kind.  Any  story 
that  is  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  and  that  pre- 
sents as  facts  matters  that  have  no  other  verification,  is  legendary. 
The  highest  type  of  legendary  story  is  one  that  presents  high  ideals. 

The  Chinese,  whose  literature  is  exceedingly  ancient,  have  always 
been  an  idealistic  people.  It  is  not  surprising  that  they  should  create 
such  an  appealing  legendary  tale  as  The  Sotil  of  the  Great  Bell. 
Although  the  elements  are  quite  simple  the  story  has  been  turned 
from  being  a  simple  account  of  tragic  self-sacrifice,  and  has  become 
an  explanation  of  the  music  of  the  bell,  as  well  as  an  example  of 
filial  devotion.  The  preservation  of  such  stories  shows  natural  ap- 
preciation of  short  story  values. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  277 

The  present  rendering  of  The  Soul  of  the  Great  Bell  undoubtedly 
far  surpasses  the  Chinese  version.  The  story  has  been  appropriately 
introduced,  amplified  and  given  added  poetic  and  dramatic  effect  by 
careful  choice  of  words,  descriptive  passages,  suspense,  onomato- 
poeia, and  climax. 

Lafcadio  Hearn  was  born  in  1850,  of  Irish  and  Greek  parentage, 
in  Leucadia,  of  the  Greek  Ionian  Islands.  At  19  he  came  to  Amer- 
ica and  engaged  in  newspaper  work,  living  at  various  times  in  New 
Orleans  and  in  New  York.  From  1891  until  his  death  in  1904  he 
made  his  home  in  Japan,  where  he  became  a  Buddhist  and  a  natural- 
ized Japanese  citizen  under  the  name  of  Yakumo  Koizumi.  He 
learned  to  know  the  oriental  peoples  as  few  others  have  known  them. 
His  literary  work  is  marked  by  poetic  treatment,  and  an  atmosphere 
of  the  Orient.  He  wrote  Glimpses  of  Unfamiliar  Japan,  Out  of 
the  East,  Some  Chinese  Ghosts,  and  many  other  books  on  oriental 
subjects. 

Ta-chung  sz'.  Temple  of  the  Bell.  A  building  in  Pekin,  holding  the 
bell  that  i8  the  subject  of  the  story.  Tlie  bell  was  made  in  the  reign 
of  Yong-lo,  about  1406  a.  d.  It  weighs  over  120,000  pounds,  and  is 
the  largest  bell  known  to  be  in  actual  use. 

Kwang-chan-fu.    The  Broad  City.     Canton. 


THE  TEN  TRAILS 
By  ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 

The  fable  and  the  proverb  are  much  alike  in  that  both  are  highly 
condensed,  and  both  are  told  to  instruct.  The  short,  direct,  applied 
narratives  known  as  "Fables"  are  among  the  oldest  ancestors  of  the 
short  story.  Even  in  the  most  ancient  times  there  were  fables, 
those  of  v5]sop  having  been  told  perhaps  as  early  as  the  sixth  cen- 
tury, B.  c.  Many  familiar  fables  have  animals  for  their  characters, 
their  known  characteristics  needing  no  comment.  Thus  the  fox  and 
the  wolf  appear  frequently,  their  mere  names  suggesting  traits  of 
character.  The  fable,  as  a  type  of  wisdom  literature,  is  always 
short,  simple,  and  emphatic.  It  always  emphasizes  marked  human 
characteristics,  and  usually  ends  with  a  "moral"  that  adds  to  the 
emphasis.  The  influence  of  the  fable  helped  to  make  the  story 
short,  condensed,  vivid,  pointed,  and  based  on  character. 

The  Ten  Trails  is  a  modem  imitation  of  older  fables.  Its  direct- 
ness, simplicity,  clear  story,  and  appended  moral  are  characteristic 
of  the  type. 

Ernest  Thompson  Seton,  born  in  England  in  1860,  has  written 
many  stories  in  which  he  presents  animal  life  with  appealing  sym- 
pathy. He  has  devoted  himself  particularly  to  cultivating  a  love 
for  outdoors  life,  and  for  animate  nature.     Wild  Animals  I  Have 


278  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

Known,  The  Biography  of  a  Grizzly,  and  similar  books,  are  full  of 
original  interest. 

WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 
By  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

An  allegory  is  a  story  that  has  an  underlying  meaning  or 
moral.  It  is  in  some  ways  an  expanded  fable,  with  the  mean- 
ing understood  rather  than  presented.  The  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  "Fable"  and  the  "Allegory"  lies  in  length  and  complexity 
of  treatment,  and  in  the  way  of  presenting  the  underljdng  meaning. 
The  "Fable"  is  short  and  usually  appends  the  moral.  The  "Alle- 
gory" is  usually  long,  and  tells  the  story  in  such  a  way  that  the 
reader  is  sure  to  grasp  the  meaning  without  further  comment.  The 
purpose,  as  in  the  "Fable,"  is  double, — to  tell  a  story,  and  to  teach 
a  truth.  All  literatures  have  numerous  allegories,  Spenser's 
Faerie  Queene,  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  Tennesson's  Idylls 
of  the  King  being  notable  examples  in  English  literature. 

Where  Love  Is,  There  God  Is  Also  is  an  allegorical  story  of  a 
pleasing  type  that  is  often  found  in  our  present  day  literature.  The 
story  has  such  evident  good  humor,  appreciation  of  the  needs  of 
humble  life,  and  such  an  unselfish  spirit  of  sympathy  that  it  appeals 
to  any  reader.  Its  strong  realism,  effective  plan,  and  clear,  em- 
phatic presentation  make  the  story  one  of  the  best  of  its  kind. 

Count  Leo  Tolstoi,  bom  at  Yasnaya  Polyana,  in  Russia,  in  1828, 
and  dying  at  Astapovo  in  1910,  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  in- 
teresting figures  in  all  modem  literature.  The  story  of  his  career, 
with  its  surprising  changes  from  the  life  of  a  nobleman  to  that  of  a 
peasant,  from  a  life  given  over  to  pleasure  to  a  life  devoted  to  the 
moral  uplift  of  a  whole  people,  is  even  more  astonishing  than  any 
<of  the  stories  he  told  in  his  many  works  of  fiction.  Student,  soldier, 
traveler,  lover  of  social  life,  philosopher,  reformer,  and  self-sacri- 
ficing idealist,  he  developed  a  personality  unique  in  the  extreme,  and 
became  a  world-wide  influence  for  good.  His  best  known  novels  are 
War  and  Peace,  and  Anna  Karenina.  In  them,  as  in  all  that  he 
wrote,  the  notable  qualities  are  realism,  dramatic  force,  original 
thought,  and  courageous  expression  of  beliefs. 

Grivenki.     A  grivenka  is  10  copecks,  or  about  five  cents. 

WOOD  LADIES 
By  PERCEVAL  GIBBON 

There  is  a  strange  fascination  about  the  supernatural,  for  men  of 
■all  races  instinctively  believe  that  they  are  surrounded  by  a  world 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  279 

of  good  and  evil  that  lies  just  beyond  their  touch.  Some  have 
thought  the  woods  and  mountains  peopled  with  unseen  divinities; 
others  have  believed  in  strange  gnomes  and  dwarfs  who  are  thought 
to  live  in  the  depths  of  the  earth;  some  have  believed  in  pale 
ghosts,  specters  that  move  by  night,  haunting  the  scenes  of  unat- 
toned  crime.  One  of  the  most  pleasing  beliefs  is  that  in  fairies,  or 
"Little  Folk," — unseen,  beautiful,  and  usually  beneficent  beings 
who  live  in  woodland  places  and  are  endowed  with  all  powers  of 
magic. 

Stories  of  the  unseen  world  that  may  lie  about  us  have  appeared 
in  all  ages.  Sometimes  such  stories  have  been  beautiful  and  fan- 
ciful, and  sometimes  filled  with  the  spirit  of  fear.  In  the  latter 
part  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  the  first  of  the  nineteenth  it 
became  quite  the  fashion  to  tell  stories  of  ghosts  and  strange  ter- 
rors. Ernst  Hoffmann  and  Ludwig  Tieck  in  Germany  set  an  exam- 
ple that  was  followed  by  Washington  Irving,  Nathaniel  Hawtliome, 
and  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  this  country,  as  well  as  by  many  other 
writers  since  their  time. 

There  is  another  and  more  healthful  attitude  of  mind.  Instead 
of  the  horror  of  Gothic  romance  it  presents  the  fancy  of  Celtic 
thought.  In  stories  of  this  gentler  type  one  does  not  feel  that  the 
unseen  world  is  wholly  to  be  feared. 

Such  a  story  is  Wood  Ladies,  in  which  the  spirit  of  Celtic  fancy 
has  found  full  play.  In  this  story  everything  is  woodsy,  delicate, 
half-seen,  as  though  one  were  treading  the  very  edges  of  fairyland 
without  knowing  it.  Mother-love  fills  the  whole  story  and  gives  it  a 
noble  beauty.  And  yet,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  child,  conscious  of 
another  world,  is  wiser  than  the  mother.  A  story  of  this  sort,  deal- 
ing with  the  supernatural,  rests  the  mind  like  sweet  music. 

Perceval  Gibbon  w^as  bom  in  Carmarthenshire  in  South  Wales, 
in  1879.  He  has  spent  much  time  in  the  merchant  service  on  Brit- 
ish, French,  and  American  vessels.  He  has  done  unusual  work  as 
war  coiTespondent.  Among  his  literary  works  are  Souls  in  Bond- 
age, The  Adventures  of  Miss  Gregory,  The  Second  Class  Passenger, 
and  a  collection  of  Poems.  His  work  is  marked  by  originality,  and 
a  clever  mastery  of  technique. 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 
By  RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 

Love  is  so  essential  a  part  of  life  that  it  must  also  be  a  part 
of  literature;  therefore  romantic  love  has  been  a  leading  liter- 
ary theme  for  centuries.  Some  of  the  world's  greatest  stories  of 
love  flash  into  our  minds  when  we  repeat  the  names  of  Juliet, 
Rosalind,    Portia,    Elaine,    and    Evangeline.     Such    stories    suggest 


280  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

depth  of  emotion,  charm,  womanly  worth,  pure  and  innocent  love, 
or  a  love  that  lasts  beyond  the  years.  In  the  days  of  chivalry 
the  knight  bore  his  lady's  token,  and  fought  in  her  honor.  To- 
day men  love  just  as  deeply,  and  fight  for  land  and  hearth  and 
sweetheart  just  as  truly  as  men  did  in  the  long  ago. 

On  the  Fever  Ship  is  the  story  of  a  modem  knight, — a  soldier 
who  went  into  his  country's  war,  bearing  in  his  heart  the  memory 
of  one  he  loved.  When  he  is  wounded,  and  lies  fever-stricken  on 
the  deck  of  a  transport,  he  does  not  think  at  all  of  himself  but 
only  of  the  one  who  is  far  away.  That  is  the  story,  an  abiding 
love  in  absence,  with  dreams  at  last  made  true. 

The  author  makes  the  story  notably  strong  and  tender.  With- 
out formal  introduction  he  presents  the  realistic  picture  of  the 
fever  ship, — the  inexplicable  monotony,  the  dream-world,  the  child- 
likeness  of  the  womided  man's  life.  Old  scenes  and  faces  come 
before  the  womided  soldier  in  tantalizing  dreams.  Little  by  little 
tbe  author  draws  us  closer  into  sympathy  with  the  central  figure. 
He  makes  us  share  in  the  man's  intensity  of  feeling.  We  feel 
the  force  of  the  strong  ejoisode  of  the  somewhat  unfeeling  nurse, 
and  become  indignant  in  the  man's  behalf.  Finally,  lifted  by  the 
power  of  the  story,  we  rise  with  it  into  full  comprehension 
of  the  depth  of  the  hero's  love.  Then,  quickly  and  with  artistic 
effect,  the  story  comes  to  an  end.  Simply,  surely,  strongly,  with 
real  sentiment  instead  of  sentimentality,  it  has  made  us  realize  the 
all-powerful  force  of  love. 

The  story  is  written  with  much  sympathy  and  evident  tender- 
ness of  spirit,  and  is  so  touched  with  real  pathos,  that  it  comes 
to  us  as  a  transcription  of  some  real  story  the  author  had  found 
in  his  work  as  war  correspondent. 

Richard  Harding  Davis  was  one  of  the  most  romantic  fisrures  in 
recent  literary  life.  As  war  correspondent  he  saw  fighting  in  the 
Spanish-American  War,  the  Boer  War,  the  Japanese-Russian  War, 
and  the  Great  War.  He  traveled  in  all  parts  of  Europe,  in  Cen- 
tral and  in  South  America,  and  in  the  little-visited  districts  of  the 
Congo  in  Africa.  He  saw  the  magnificent  coronation  ceremonies 
of  the  King  of  Spain,  the  King  of  England,  and  the  Czar  of 
Russia.  He  attended  gorgeous  state  occasions  in  various  lands. 
He  also  lived  the  hard  field  and  camp  life  of  a  soldier  and  an 
explorer. 

He  wrote  a  number  of  extraordinarily  good  short  stories,  several 
stirring  novels, — among  which  are  The  King's  Jackal,  Ransom's 
•Folly,  The  White  Mice,  and  The  Princess  Aline, — several  plays,  and 
a  number  of  works  of  travel  and  war  correspondence. 

Richard  Harding  Davis  was  bom  in  Philadelphia  in  1864,  and 
.died  in  New  York  in  1916. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  281 

San  Juan.     A  fortified  hill  position  in  Cuba,  near  Santiago  de  Cuba, 

captured  in  the  Spanish-American  War  by  the  United  States  soldiers 

July  1,  1898. 
Maitre  d'hotel.     Chief  attendant — head-waiter. 

Embankment.     The  Thames  Embankment,  a  noted  part  of  London. 
Chasseur.     Footman. 
Numero  cinq,  sur  la  terrace,  un  couvert.     Number  five,  on  the  terrace, 

one  place. 
Baiquiri.     A  landing  place  in  Cuba  near  Santiago  de  Cuba.     The  United 

States  soldiers  landed  here,  June  21-23,  1898. 
Tampa.     A  seaport  in  Florida. 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 
By  STACY  AUMONIER 

An  interesting  type  of  story  shows  an  ordinary  person  in  an  ex- 
traordinary situation.  In  Robinson  Crusoe,  for  example,  an  ordi- 
nary Englishman  is  left  alone  on  an  uninhabited  island;  in  Stock- 
ton's The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine  two  good 
old  New  England  women  with  little  worldly  experience  are  wrecked 
on  a  mysterious  island  in  the  Pacific ;  in  Howard  Pyle's  The  Ruby  of 
Kishmore  a  peace-loving  Philadelphia  Quaker  is  suddenly  involved 
in  a  series  of  bloody  encounters  in  the  West  Indies.  Such  stories 
always  arouse  interest  or  develop  humor  by  the  astonishing  contrast 
between  setting  and  characters,  and  they  always  emphasize  character 
by. showing  how  it  acts  in  unusual  circumstances.  Thus  Robinson 
Crusoe  at  once  attracts  our  interest  and  awakens  admiration  for  the 
hero. 

A  Source  of  Irritation  is  especially  clever  in  every  way.  There 
could  be  no  greater  contrast  than  that  between  old  Sam  Gates'  usual 
hum-drum,  eventless  life,  and  the  sudden  transfer  to  an  aeroplane, 
a  foreign  land,  the  trenches,  battle,  and  the  search  for  a  spy.  Very 
rarely,  too,  is  a  character  presented  so  emphatically  as  this  69-3'ear- 
old  gardener,  with  his  irritable  moods,  his  insistence  on  the  habits  of 
a  life-time,  his  stolidity,  and  his  real  manliness.  Equally  rare  is  a 
story  told  so  effectively,  with  just  the  proper  combination  of  realism 
and  romance,  with  quick  touches  of  comedy  and  of  tragedy,  with  a 
closeness  to  life  that  is  indisputable,  and  a  romance  that  is  unusual. 
In  its  every  part  the  story  is  a  masterpiece  of  construction. 

Stacy  Aumonier  is  an  Englishman  of  Huguenot  descent. 

Swede.     A  Swedish  turnip. 

Shag.     A  fine-cut  tobacco. 

"Mare  vudish. '     Alerkwiirdig,  remarkable. 

A  fearful  noise.     The  English  made  an  attack  on  the  German  aeroplan 

Uglaubllch.     Incredible. 

A  foreign  country.     Evidently  Flanders. 


282  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

Boche.     German. 

G.  H.  Q.     General  Head  Quarters. 

Norfolk.     One   of   the   eastern  counties   of   England,   bordering   on  the 
North  Sea. 

MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 
By  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

One  of  the  pleasures  of  life  is  to  travel  and  see  the  world.  If  we 
are  unable  to  travel  far  in  reality  we  may  at  least  see  much  of 
strange  lands  through  short  stories  of  distant  places  and  ways  of  life 
different  from  the  ordinary. 

Moti  Guj — Mutineer  is  a  stoiy  of  life  in  India,  of  elephants  and 
mahouts  and  strange  events.  It  has  all  the  atmosphere  of  India, 
given  by  half-humorous  realistic  touches  that  transport  us  from  the 
land  of  everyday.  It  is  a  story  of  animal  life,  told  wdth  an  intimate 
knowledge  that  shows  close  familiarity  with  ''elephanthood."  Be- 
yond that,  it  has  what  eveiy  story  must  have, — close  relation  to  hu- 
man character  as  we  see  it  in  any  land  at  any  time.  Even  the  ele- 
phant is  made  to  act  and  to  think  as  if  he  were  a  human  being.  The 
humorous  style,  and  the  quickness  with  which  the  stoiy  is  told,  as 
well  as  the  vivid  pictures  it  gives,  are  typical  of  its  author's  work. 

Rudyard  Kipling  was  born  in  Bombay,  India,  in  1865.  After 
education  in  England  he  became  a  sub-editor  of  a  paper  published  in 
Lahore,  India,  where  he  lived  for  some  years,  becoming  intimate 
with  all  the  life  of  the  land.  He  has  lived  at  various  times  in  India, 
the  United  States,  South  Africa,  and  England.  He  has  written  a 
great  number  of  astonishingly  clever  stories,  poems,  and  novels,  all 
in  quick,  vigorous  style,  with  freedom  from  restraint,  with  rough 
realism,  and  with  genuine  humor  and  pathos.  Among  his  most  not- 
able books  are:  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  The  Jungle  Book,  Cap- 
tains Courageous,  The  Day's  Work,  and  Puck  of  Pook's  Hill, 

Arrack.     A  fermented  drink. 

Coir-swab.     A  mop  made  from  cocoanut  fiber. 

GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 
By  WALTER  A.  DYER 

There  is  a  wonderfully  close  sympathy  between  man  and  the 
animal  world. — a  sympathy  that  is  especially  strong  in  the  case 
of  either  the  horse  or  the  dog,  animals  that  are  the  close  associates 
of  man.  Ancient  literature, — The  Bible  and  The  Odyssey, — tell  of 
the  faithfulness  of  the  dog,  man's  friend  and  protector.  In  recent 
times  writers  have  turned  to  the  whole  world  of  nature  for  subjects, 
— the  stag,  the  grizzly  bear,  the  wolf,  and  other  animals,  but  stories 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  283 

of  dogs  still  awaken  interest  and  sympathy,  and  will  continue  to  do 
so  as  long  as  the  faithfulness  of  dogs  endures, — which  is  forever. 

Gulliver  the  Great  is  told  in  an  interestingly  suggestive  manner, 
every  part  of  the  story  being  rich  with  hints  on  which  our  imagina- 
tions build.  The  pleasant  calm  of  the  setting  adds  much  to  the 
effect.  The  man's  character  is  emphasized  from  the  start,  making 
the  story  he  tells  have  full  meaning.  The  story  is  dramatic,  but 
its  power  rests  far  more  on  sympathy  than  on  events.  The  art  of 
the  story  is  in  the  clever  way  in  which  the  almost  human  soul  of 
the  dog  is  revealed,  acting  upon  the  soul  of  the  man. 

Walter  A.  Dyer  was  boni  in  Massachusetts  in  1878.  Since  his 
graduation  from  Amherst  College  in  1900  he  has  been  engaged  in 
editorial  and  other  literary  work.  His  natural  fondness  for  dogs 
has  led  to  such  books  as  Pierrot:  Dog  of  Belgium,  and  Gulliver  the 
Great. 

Early  Victorian  comforts.  The  comforts  characteristic  of  the  first  part 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria  of  England,  before  city  life  and  com- 
mercial life  were  highly  developed. 

Mr.  Pickwick.  The  humorous  hero  of  Charles  Dickens'  famous  novel, 
Pickwick  Papers. 

James  G.  Blaine.  An  American  statesman,  1830-1893.  He  held  many 
high  offices,  and  was  once  candidate  for  the  Presidency 

Simplicissimus.     A  humorous  and  satirical  German  periodical. 

Brunos.  From  the  Latin  "brunus" — brown.  A  name  frequently  given 
to  dogs. 

Mores.     The  Malay  inhabitants  of  certain  islands  of  the  Philippines 

Great  Dane.     A  type  of  dog  noted  for  great  size  and  graceful  build. 

Vohl's  Vulcan.     A  famous  dog. 

Wurtemburg  breed.     A  well-known  breed  of  dogs. 

Manna  Loa,     A  noted  Hawaiian  volcano  nearly  14,000  feet  in  height. 

Bulls  of  Bashan.  The  Bible  makes  frequent  mention  of  the  bulls  of 
Bashan,  a  section  of  Palestine  east  of  the  valley  of  the  Jordan. 

SONNY'S  SCHOOLING 
By  RUTH  McENERY  STUART 

Laughter  is  a  legitimate  part  of  life,  especially  when  it  clarifies 
the  mind.  The  short  story  has  seized  upon  all  the  elements  of  hu- 
mor and  made  them  its  own,  especially  the  anecdote.  Some  writers 
have  used  whimsical  humor  to  give  relief  from  sombre  tales,  or 
have  told  stories  lightly  and  fancifully  humorous,  like  several  in 
this  book.  Others  have  written  with  broader  effects.  Every  one 
of  the  many  types  of  humorous  story  is  good. — the  unusual  situa- 
tion, the  surprising  climax,  the  fantastic  character,  the  utter  absurd- 
ity,— but  every  type  must  follow  the  dictates  of  good  taste.  Humor 
need  never  be  coarse,  or  vulgar,  or  in  any  way  aimed  at  persona) 
satire.     It  may  criticize,  but  it  must  do  so  with  friendly  good  will. 


284  CRITICAL  COM^^IEXT 

Sonny's  SchooUn'  is  a  series  of  connected  anecdotes,  told  in  mono- 
logue. The  humor  of  the  anecdotes  lies  in  their  absurdity — m  the 
presence  of  Sonny  eveiy  one  is  so  helpless!  Any  modern  teacher 
would  deal  with  Sonny  m  a  way  that  he  would  understand.  The 
humor  of  the  naiTation  lies  partly  in  the  events,  partly  in  the  speak- 
er's naive,  unconscious  exposition  of  self,  and  partly  in  the  amusing 
dialect.  Two  qualities  illuminate  the  story:  one,  the  gradual  pres- 
entation of  Sonny's  really  lovable  nature,  seen  to  better  advantage 
by  the  father-and-mother-love  behind  it;  the  other,  the  gi'adual 
criticism  of  the  older  system  of  education,  and  the  suggestion  of  a 
type  well  adapted  to  quick,  active,  original  minds  like  Sonny's. 

Kuth  McEuery  Stuart,  a  native  of  Louisiana,  contributed  to  our 
best  periodicals,  and  wrote  many  amusing,  and  wholly  sympathetic, 
stories  of  southeni  life,  such  as  HoUi/  and  Pi-en,  Napoleon  Jackson, 
Sonny,  and  Sonny's  Father.     She  died  in  1917. 

HER  FIEST  HORSE  SHOW 
Bv  DAVID  GRAY 

Every  side  of  life  contributes  short  story  material, — the  deeds  of 
people  in  strange  surroundings,  unusual  aces  of  heroism  iu  war  or  in 
peace,  the  lives  of  the  poor,  and  the  lives  of  the  rich.  Since  men's 
characters  are  independent  of  either  wealth  or  poverty,  the  stoiy  of 
society  life,  when  written  effectively,  may  awaken  as  deep  feelings 
of  sympathy  or  brotherhood  as  the  story  of  humble  life.  Any  story 
is  worthy  if  it  broadens  the  understanding  of  life  and  presents  its 
material  in  artistic  form. 

On  the  surface  Her  First  Horse  Show  is  a  story  of  society  life, 
of  rich  people  who  delight  in  the  fashionable  horse  show,  and  in 
dining  at  the  Waldorf.  Fundamentally,  it  is  a  story  of  human 
understanding,  cleverness,  and  daring,  in  which  the  chaiTQ  of  a  girl, 
and  the  thoroughbred  qualities  of  a  horse,  play  leading  parts. 
Quick,  suggestive  conversation  makes  the  story  ^4vidly  interesting, 
and  clear  arrangement  leads  effectivelv  to  the  climax. 

David  Gray  was  bom  in  Buffalo,  New  York,  in  1S70.  He  has 
done  editorial  work  on  various  papers,  and  has  written  a  large  num- 
ber of  interesting  *^ioi*se  stories"  collected  in  such  books  as  GoUops 
I,  Gallops  II,  and  Mr.  Carteret  and  Others.  In  1S99  Mr.  Gray 
entered  the  legal  profession. 

Doubting  Thomas.  A  reference  to  the  Bible  story  of  St.  Thomas,  who 
at  first  doubted  the  resurrection  of  .Tegus.     See  John:  20:  25. 

"Hands."  Much  of  the  skill  in  riding  high  spirited  horses  depends  upon 
the  use  of  the  hands  in  holding  the  reins. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  285 

MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK 
By  JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE 

Sometimes  the  short  story  is  used  as  an  effective  means  of  satire 
of  a  type  resembling  that  employed  by  Addison  m  The  Spectator 
Papers.  Satire  can  be  given  in  so  few  words,  and  in  the  vei-y 
speech  and  actions  of  the  persons  satirized,  that  it  is  well  adapted 
as  material  for  the  short  story.  It  should  be  the  aim  of  all  satiiicaJ 
short  stories  of  the  milder  sort  to  follow  Addison's  rule,  and  point 
out  little  follies  rather  than  great  wickednesses,  and  to  aim  at  a 
thousand  people  rather  than  at  one. 

My  Husband's  Book  is  an  admirable  example  of  ideal  satire  of 
the  lighter  type.  The  husband  is  typical— of  whom!— of  every  or^e 
who  puts  off  until  tomorrow  what  he  should  do  today.  The  wife 
is  presented  whimsically  as  altogether  adoring,  but  as  somewhat 
persistently  and  mischievously  suspicious.  At  no  time  does  the 
husband  become  aware  of  his  real  defect  of  character,  nor  the  wife 
lose  all  her  loving  faith.  Kindly  satire  like  this  is  playful  in  nature, 
the  sort  to  be  expected  from  the  author  of  Peter  Pan.  We  laugh 
good-naturedly  at  the  husband — and  see  ouselves  in  him? 

Sir  James  Matthew  Bame  was  bom  in  Kirriemuir,  Scotland,  in 
1860.  His  delightfully  romantic  Aidd  Licht  Idylls,  A  Window  in 
Thrums,  and  especially  The  Litlle  Minister,  made  him  known  to  all 
the  English-speaking  world.  His  remarkably  original  and  fanciful 
plays,  Quality  Street,  Peter  Pan,  What  Every  Woman  Knows,  and 
numerous  other  dramatic  works  have  added  to  his  already  great  repu- 
tation. He  is  one  of  the  leading  English  writers  of  the  present 
time. 

WAR 

By  JACK  LONDON 

The  short  story  often  rises  beyond  the  light  and  the  commonplace 
to  act  as  a  stem  critic  of  world  conditions.  With  vivid,  realistic 
touches  it  points  at  reality.  By  focussing  every  light  upon  a  single 
human  figure  who  compellingly  commands  sympathy  it  arouses  in 
us  a  sense  of  kinship  with  all  who  suffer.  Short  stories  of  this 
type  have  teaching  force  that  is  all  powerful. 

War  is  such  a  story.  Although  little  more  than  a  vi\ad  sketch  it 
presents  the  brutality  of  war  in  all  its  horror, — not  by  picturing 
the  slaughter  of  thousands,  but  by  showing  a  boy, — shrinking,  eager 
to  perform  his  full  duty,  loving  life,  fearing  death,  stopping  to 
gather  apples  in  a  boyish  way, — a  boy  whose  instinctive  and  noble 
hesitation  to  kill  rebounds  on  himself,  as  if  in  irony,  and  causes  his 
own  death.    In  a  certain  sense,  the  boy  with  his  kindly  manhood 


286  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

and  generous  motives  represents  the  American  spirit.  The  opposite 
type  of  spirit,  the  love  of  war  for  war's  sake,  brutality  for  the  sake 
of  brutakty,  is  shown  in  the  boy's  enemies, — ^harsh  foreigners  who 
hang  men  to  trees,  who  shoot  at  the  boy  as  at  a  target,  and  laugh 
at  his  death.  The  stoiy  individualizes  war,  and  thereby  gives 
emphasis  to  its  horror.  Such  a  story  demands  on  the  part  of  the 
author  a  heartfelt  interest  m  his  theme,  an  mtense  love  of  life,  and 
the  ability  to  write  m  realistic  style. 

Jack  London  was  deeply  interested  in  the  world  of  men.  Far 
from  being  a  recluse,  he  lived  an  active  life  with  his  fellows.  He 
left  his  college  class  m  order  to  go  with  other  adventurers  into  the 
Klondike ;  he  went  to  Japan,  and  seal  hunting  m  the  Behring  Sea  as 
a  sailor  before  the  mast;  he  tramped  about  the  country;  he  traveled 
as  a  war  correspondent,  and  went  on  an  adventurous  voyage  into  the 
South  Seas  in  a  55-foot  yacht.  He  wrote  a  great  number  of  books, 
all  of  which  show  a  quick  understanding  of  the  needs  of  humanity. 
Some  of  his  works  are  thoughtful  studies  of  social  conditions.  His 
best  known  books  are:  The  Call  of  the  Wild,  The  Sea  Wolf,  and 
The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore,  He  was  born  in  San  Francisco  in  1876, 
and  died  in  1916. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 
By  MORGAN  ROBERTSON 

In  this  day  when  science  plays  so  great  a  part  in  life  it  is  only 
natural  that  many  stories  should  be  based  on  scientific  knowledge. 
Since  such  stories  must  almost  always  more  or  less  distort  scientific 
\ruth  in  order  to  make  the  facts  have  story-interest  they  are  usually 
called  "pseudo-scientific,"  that  is,  falsely  scientific. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  did  so  much  for  the  short  story,  was  one 
of  the  first  to  write  pseudo-scientific  stories,  his  Descent  into  the 
Maelstrom,  and  A  Tale  of  the  Ragged  Mountains  being  good  exam- 
ples of  his  peculiar  power. 

The  Battle,  of  the  Monsters  is  a  wonderfully  clever  pseudo-scien- 
tific story.  In  it  we  enter  the  minute  world  of  the  miscroscope, 
every  character  being  infinitesimally  small. 

The  story  tells  how  a  microbe  of  Asiatic  cholera  enters  the  veins  of 
John  Anderson  at  the  same  moment  when  he  is  bitten  by  a  rabid 
dog.  The  "white,  corrugated  wall"  is  the  dog's  tooth;  the  army  of 
dog-faced  creatures  is  composed  of  the  microbes  of  rabies,  or  hy- 
drophobia. The  vibrant  roar  heard  from  time  to  time,  is  the  beat 
of  the  man's  heart.  In  the  veins  the  cholera  microbe  finds  the 
red  corpuscles  and  other  cells  and  microbes  that  exist  in  the  blood, 
and  also  the  white  corpuscles  that,  according  to  Metschnikoff,  act  as 
destroyers  of  the  microbes   of   disease.     We  go  with  the  cholera 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  287 

microbe  through  the  series  of  blood  vessels  into  the  heart  and  thence 
back  mto  the  arteries  and  veins,  all  the  time  seeing  the  struggle 
between  the  beneticent  white  corpuscles  and  the  deadly  microbes  of 
rabies.  We  see  the  desperate  eliorts  to  keep  the  inicrubes  of  rabies 
from  entering  the  cells  and  finding  their  way  to  the  brain.  As  the 
microbes  of  rabies  reproduce  they  begin  to  wm  the  battle.  The 
cholera  microbe,  himself  lighting  the  hosts  of  rabies,  is  about  to  be 
overcome,  when  the  physician's  injection  of  antitoxin  brings  a  new 
army  to  light  the  dog-faced  creatures.  Kow  that  the  danger  of 
rabies  has  been  overcome  attention  is  paid  to  the  hero  of  the  story, 
who  declares  himself  to  be  the  microbe  of  Asiatic  cholera.  At  once 
the  police  guardians  of  the  blood,  the  white  corpuscles,  close  on 
him  and  destroy  him.  Thus  John  Anderson  escapes  all  danger 
from  rabies  and  from  cholera,  to  both  of  which  he  had  been  ex- 
posed. The  battle,  if  microscopic,  had  been  real,  had  been  on  a 
grand  scale,  and  had  been  of  tremendous  importance. 

The  pseudo-scientific  story  could  have  no  better  illustration.  Ev- 
ery detail  is  clear,  vi\dd  with  action,  and  tense  with  interest.  There 
is  no  turning  aside  to  give  scientific  information — nothing  that  is 
dry-as-dust.  The  microbes  and  corpuscles,  without  losing  their  es- 
sential characteristics,  speak  and  act  in  ways  that  we  can  understand. 
That  is  why  the  story  is  so  successful.  It  is  a  human  story,  based 
upon  human  interest.  Familiar  language,  familiar  ways  of  thought, 
events  that  we  can  understand,  convey  to  us  information  on  a  learned 
scientific  subject— the  work  of  the  white  blood  corpuscles. 

Morgan  Robertson,  1861-1915,  was  born  in  Oswego,  N.  Y.  From 
1877  to  LS86  he  lived  the  life  of  a  sailor  at  sea.  Gifted  with  natural 
literary  abilitv  he  turned  to  wanting,  and  wrote  a  number  of  dis- 
tinctly original  stories,  most  of  them  about  the  sea,  such  as  Spun 
Yarn,  Masters  of  Men,  Shipmates,  and  Down  to  the  Sea. 

Metschnikoff's  theory.  The  great  Russian  physiologist,  Iliya  Metschni- 
kofT,  1845-1016,  taught  that  the  white  blood  corpuscles  act  as  de- 
stroyers of  disease  microbes. 

The  wounds  of  Milton's  warring  angels.  In  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  the 
aneels,  wounded  in  the  war  in  heaven,  at  once  recovered. 

Darwin.  Charles  Darwin.  1809-1882  The  great  English  naturalist, 
founder  of  the  "Darwinian  Theory"  of  evolution  from  lower  forms. 

Pasteur.  Louis  Pasteur,  1822-1805.  The  great  French  microscopist, 
and    student    of    hydrophobia.     He    was    the    first    to    inoculate    for 

hydrophobia.  ,      .  .  x.      jt- 

Koch.  Robert  Kooh,  184.'?-1010.  a  great  German  physician  who  dis- 
covered the  bacilli  of  tuberculosis  and  of  cholera. 


288  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

A  DILEMMA 
By  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL 

A  popular  type  of  story  leaves  the  reader,  at  the  conclusion,  to 
choose  one  of  two  endings,  either  of  which  is  open  to  objections. 
Such  a  story  sets  the  reader's  mind  at  work,  leads  him  to  review 
every  part  of  the  story,  and  leaves  a  peculiarly  lasting  impression 
of  construction  and  emphasis.  In  stories  of  this  sort  there  is  care- 
ful exclusion  of  everything  that  does  not  tend  to  lead  to,  or  to 
increase,  the  difficulty. 

A  Dilemma  makes  complete  preparation  for  the  final  puzzle  by 
giving  all  the  necessary  facts,  and  all  the  motives  for  possible  action, 
or  non-action.  When  the  reader  reviews  all  that  has  been  said,  and 
sees  how  cleverly  the  story  is  constructed,  he  finds  that  the  difficulty 
of  solution  appears  even  gTeater  than  at  first. 

Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  1829-1914,  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  and 
there  spent  most  of  his  life.  As  a  physician  he  wrote  many  medical 
books,  and  became  one  of  the  most  distinguished  neurologists  in  the 
world.  His  unusual  ability  led  to  his  becoming  member  of  many 
learned  scientific  societies  in  this  country  and  in  Europe.  In  spite 
of  his  active  medical  work  he  found  time  for  much  writmg  of  a 
purely  literary  nature.  Such  books  as  Hugh  Wynne,  The  Adven- 
tures of  Francois,  and  Dr.  North  and  His  Friends,  are  distinctly 
original  American  contributions,  and  made  their  author  unusually 
popular. 

Empress-Queen  Maria  Theresa.  Maria  Theresa,  1717-1780.  Arch- 
duchess of  Austria,  Queen  of  Hungary,  and  wife  of  Emperor  Francis 
I  of  Austria.  One  of  the  most  interesting  and  notable  women  in 
history. 

THE  RED  HEADED  LEAGUE 
By  A.  CONAN  DOYLE 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  the  first  author  to  succeed  in  the  "detective 
story."  His  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morque,  The  Mystery  of  Marie 
Roget,  and  The  Purloined  Letter  are  among  the  first  stories  of  their 
type.  Since  Poe's  time  there  have  been  all  sorts  of  detective 
stories, — good,  bad,  and  indifferent, — from  cheap  penny-dreadfuls 
to  elaborate  novels.  Poe's  method  has  been  followed  in  nearly 
every  one,  whether  written  in  this  country,  or  abroad,  as  by  Sir 
Arthur  Conan  Doyle  in  England,  Emile  Gaboriau  in  France,  or 
Anton  Chekhov  in  Russia. 

Of  all  the  thousands  who  have  tried  their  hands  in  writing 
detective  stories  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  has  won  the  most  pleas- 
ing success.    His  Sherlock  Holmes  is  a  world-known  character. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  289 

The  Red  Headed  League  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  author's 
method.  The  story  is  told  by  the  hero's  friend,  Dr.  Watson,  allow- 
ing opportunity  for  close  appearance  of  reality,  and  for  unstinted 
praise.  The  problem  is  mtroduced  at  first  hand,  apparently  with 
every  detail.  To  a  certain  degree  we  are  allowed  to  enter  the 
series  of  deductive  reasonings  pursued  by  Sherlock  Holmes.  We 
are  given  a  brilliant  series  of  events,  and  then  the  final  solution. 
Occasional  hints  at  other  work  performed  by  Sherlock  Holmes 
tend  to  awaken  further  interest.  There  is  such  closeness  to  life, 
realistic  character  drawing,  good  humor,  and  natural  conversatiuii, 
that  the  stoiy, — like  all  the  four  books  of  the  Sherlock  Holmes 
series, — is  most  attractive. 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1859.  Both 
his  father  and  grandfather  achieved  fame  as  artists.  Sir  Arthur 
began  life  as  a  physician  and  surgeon,  but  soon  found  his  real 
work  in  letters.  He  has  written  a  number  of  our  best  historical 
novels.  The  White  Company,  Micah  Clarke,  The  Refuges,  Sir 
Nigel,  etc.,  and  four  books  of  stories  about  Sherlock  Holmes,  as 
well  as  much  other  work  both  in  prose  and  in  verse. 

Omne  ignotum  pro  magnifico.     Whatever  is  unknown  is  thought  to  be 

magnificent. 
Sarasate.     A  famous  Spanish  violinist,  1844-. 
Partie  carree.     A  party  of  four. 
"L'homme  c'est  rien — I'oeuvre  c'est  tout."     The  man   is  nothing — the 

work  is  everything. 
Gustave  Flaubert.     1821-1880.     One  of  the  greatest  French  novelists. 
George  Sand.     The  pseudonym  of  the  Baroness  Dudevant,  1804-1876,  a 

great  French  novelist  and  playwright. 


ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 
By  OWEN  JOHNSON 

In  One  Hundred  in  the  Dark  Owen  Johnson  makes  one  of  the 
characters  say  that  the  peculiar  fascination  of  the  detective  story 
lies  more  in  the  statement  of  the  problem  than  in  the  solution. 
"The  solution  does  n't  count.  It  is  usually  banal ;  it  should  be 
prohibited.     What   interests  us  is,   can   we   guess   it?" 

One  Hundred  in  the  Dark  illustrates  that  type  of  detective  story 
that  presents  a  problem  but  gives  no  solution.  Giving  all  the 
information  that  one  could  be  expected  to  have,  it  presents  a 
problem  with  several  different  solutions  possible.  At  the  end  of 
the  story  the  problem  is  left  unsolved — the  reader  is  "in  the  dark." 
but,  because  his  mind  has  been  awakened,  he  is  fascinated.  The 
author  has  gone  further  than  usual,  for  he  gives  the  story  as  if 
told  in  a  club  at  the  conclusion  of  a  conversation  in  which  several 


290  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

persons  have  taken  part.  The  story  is  followed  by  further  con- 
versation that  suggests  a  second  problem — what  did  the  members 
of  the  club  think  of  the  person  who  told  the  story?  The  result 
is  that  the  author  has  cleverly  established  a  definite  setting,  has 
aroused  interest  in  the  type  of  stoi*y  to  be  told,  and  has  emphasized 
the  problem  by  giving  it  a  new  interest  in  the  light  of  the  ques- 
tion :  What  part  did  the  members  of  the  club  think  Peters  played 
in  the  stoiy   that  he  himself  told? 

Owen  Johnson  was  born  in  New  York  in  1878.  He  turned  his 
college  life  at  Yale  into  literary  account  in  his  interesting  novel. 
Stover  at  Yale.  He  is  the  author  of  numerous  short  stories  and 
plays. 

Bon  mots.     Bright  sayings. 

De  Maupassant.     Guy  de  Maupassant,  1850-1893.     A  celebrated  French 

novelist  and  poet.     In  Fort  comme  la  Mort    (Strong  as  Death)    he 

tells  of  the  life  of  fashionable  society. 
The  Faust  theme.     A  reference  to  the  great  tragedy  of  Faust  by  the 

German  poet,   Goethe,    1749-1832,     Faust   personifies  humanity  with 

all  its  longings. 
The  Three  Musketeers,  etc.     The  Three  Musketeers,  by  Alexander  Dumas, 

p^re,  1803-1870;   Trilby,  by  George  du  Maurier,  1834-1896,  and  *S•o^ 

diers  Three,  by  Rudyard  Kipling,  1865-,  all  tell  stories  of  the  close 

comradeship  of  three  men. 
Vie  de  Boheme.     Scenes  de  la  vie  de  Boheme  by  Henri  Murger.     The 

opera  La  Boheme  is  based  upon  this  book. 
Bluebeard  and  The  Moonstone.     In  the  stories  of  Blueheard,  and  The 

Moonstone,   a   famous   mystery   story   by   Wilkie   Collins,    1824-1889, 

curiosity  plays  a  leading  part. 
Watteaulike.     A   reference   to   the   conventional    pictures   of   shepherd- 
esses by  Jean  Antoine  Watteau,  a  celebrated  French  painter,   1684- 

1721. 
Fines  herbes.     Vegetable  greens. 
En  maitre.     As  master. 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 
By  O.  HENRY 

The  story  of  self-sacrifice  has  appealed  to  people  in  all  times, 
whether  it  appears  in  history, — as  in  the  partly  legendary  story  of 
Arnold  von  Winkelried,  who  gathered  the  Austrian  spears  against 
his  breast  in  order  that  his  comrades  might  make  a  way  through  the 
ranks  of  the  enemy, — or  in  fiction,  as  in  Dickens'  A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities.  Such  a  story  is  particularly  fascinating,  when,  as  in  the 
story  of  Sidney  Carton,  it  combines  the  idea  of  self-sacrifice  with 
that  of  fundamental  change  in  character. 

In  A  Retrieved  Reformation  0.  Henry  has  told,  in  a  convincingly 
brilliant  way,  how  a  man — always  really  good  at  heart, — even  when 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  291 

set  in  evil  ways — ^was  led  through  love  to  develop  his  better  self. 
The  greatness  of  Jimmy  Valentine's  soul  is  made  clear  by  his  instant 
willingness  to  sacrifice  every  hope  he  had, — to  lay  everything*  on  the 
altar  of  love  and  manliness. 

The  quick,  realistic,  kindly-humorous  characterizations,  the  clear, 
logical  arrangement  of  opposing  forces,  the  dramatic  situation  at 
the  climax,  and  the  instant  solution, — for  which  every  step  has 
inevitably  prepared, — point  alike  to  a  master  hand  in  story  telling. 

William  Sidney  Porter,  1867-1910, — better  known  by  the  name, 
"0.  Henry,"  which  he  chose  humorously  because  it  is  so  easy  to 
write  "0,"  and  because  he  happened  to  see  "Henry"  as  a  last  name 
in  a  newspaper  account, — achieved  as  much  popularity  as  any  short 
story  writer  could  desire.  He  was  born  in  North  Carolina,  and 
brought  up  in  Texas,  where  he  gained  the  little  schooling  that  fell 
to  his  lot.  He  became  a  sort  of  rolling  stone,  working  on  various 
periodicals,  living  in  South  America,  working  in  Texas  as  a  drug 
clerk,  engaging  fully  in  literary  work  in  New  Orleans,  and  finally 
coming  to  New  York  City  where  he  sold  stories  as  fast  as  he  could 
write  them — and  his  powers  of  production  were  most  astonishing. 
He  was  only  42  when  he  died,  but,  in  spite  of  his  wandering  life,  he 
had  made  himself,  with  almost  careless  ease,  the  master  of  the  short 
story.  He  wrote  quite  untrammeled  by  convention  or  custom,  using 
slang,  coining  words,  writmg  in  any  way  he  pleased,  but  always,  in 
reality,  following  the  best  principles  of  story  telling,  making  his 
plots  clear,  convincing,  and  full  of  the  unexpected  humors  of  life. 
With  it  all  he  wrote  with  a  spirit  of  gentleness  and  often  touched 
real  pathos.  His  favorite  method  was  to  surprise  the  reader  by 
bringing  him  to  a  most  unexpected  climax. 


BROTHER  LEO 
By  PHYLLIS  BOTTOME 

The  world  is  so  full  of  selfishness,  and  resulting  misery,  that 
every  one  more  or  less  often  thinks  how  different  life  would  be  if 
every  individual  were  to  be  ideal.  Somewhere,  somehow,  we  think, 
must  be  a  Utopia  where  everything  is  as  it  should  be. 

Brother  Leo  is  not  a  fantastic  dream  of  some  unreal  place.  It  is 
a  simply  beautiful  story  of  a  monk  who  had  known  no  other  life 
than  that  in  his  monastic  retreat  on  an  island  near  Venice.  There, 
in  a  sort  of  heaven  on  earth,  in  a  life  of  extreme  simplicity,  the 
young  man,  untouched  by  the  world,  developed  all  that  should 
'characterize  us  in  our  daily  lives.  For  one  day  he  goes  out  into  the 
city,  comes  into  touch  with  its  veneer  and  dishonesty,  and  goes 
back  joyfully,  without  the  slightest  regret,  into  his  calm  retreat. 

The  story,  or  character  sketch,  has  no  startling  event.     The  young 


292  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

monk  moves  in  the  soft  light  of  kindliness,  a  beautiful,  dream-like 
figure  presented  to  us  with  sufficient  realism  to  give  verisimilitude. 
How  much  better  to  show  this  modem,  idealistic  figure  in  modern 
surroundings  than  to  picture  some  one  in  the  distant  past,  or  in  the 
still  more  distant  future! 

Phyllis  Bottome  was  bom  in  England.  Her  father  was  an  Ameri- 
can clergyman  and  her  mother  an  English  woman.  She  has  spent 
most  of  her  life  in  England,  although  she  has  lived  in  America, 
France  and  Italy.  She  has  written  many  short  stories,  some  of 
wliich  have  been  collected  in  a  volume  called  The  Derelict. 

Torcello.     An  island  six  miles  northeast  of  Venice. 

Saint  Francis.  Francis  of  Assisi,  1182-1226.  The  founder  of  the 
monastic  order  of  Franciscans. 

Poverelli.     Poor  people. 

Rembrandt.  1607-1669.  A  great  Dutch  painter.  Some  of  his  pic- 
tures, — especially  The  Night  Watch, — show  wonderful  light  effects. 

Poverino.     Poor  little  fellow. 

The  sin  of  Esau.  See  the  Bible  story  in  Genesis  25 :  27-34.  Esau  sold 
his  birthright  in  order  to  satisfy  his  hunger. 

St.  Francis'  birds.  St.  Francis  loved  all  animate  and  inanimate  nature, 
and  once  preached  to  the  birds  as  if  they  could  understand  him. 

Per  Bacco,  Signore.     By  Bacchus,  Sir! 

Signore  Die.     Lord  God. 

Veramente.     Truly. 

II  Signore  Die.     The  Lord  God. 

Piazzetta.     An  open  square  near  the  landing  place  in  Venice. 

The  ducal  palace.  The  palace  of  the  Doges  of  Venice,  built  in  the  fif- 
teenth century. 

Chi  lo  sa?     Who  knows? 

The  column  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark's.  A  column  in  the  Piazzetta  bear- 
ing a  winged  lion,  the  emblem  of  St.  Mark. 

Saint  Mark's.  One  of  the  most  famous  and  beautiful  church  buildings 
in  the  world,  originally  founded  in  830.  Its  attractive  Byzantine 
architecture  and  its  wonderful  mosaics  have  always  given  delight. 

The  Piazza.     The  chief  business  and  pleasure  center  of  Venice. 

The  new  Campanile.  A  new  tower  that  takes  the  place  of  the  fallen 
Campanile  begun  in  the  ninth  century. 

Frari.  A  great  Venetian  church  built  for  the  Franciscan  Friars,  1250- 
1350. 

Titian.  1477-1576.  The  most  famous  of  all  Venetian  painters.  One 
of  the  greatest  artists  the  world  has  known. 

Bellinis.  Pictures  by  Giovanni  Bellini,  1427  (?) -1516,  a  great  Venetian 
painter,  and  the  instructor  of  Titian. 

Andiamo.     Let  us  go. 

Palazzo  Giovanelli.  A  Venetian  palace  containing  a  small  but  beauti- 
ful collection  of  paintings. 

Giorgiones.  Pictures  by  Giorgione,  1477-1511,  a  pupil  of  Bellini,  much 
noted  for  color  effects. 

Florian's.     A  famous  Venetian  caf6,  some  200  years  old. 

Speriamo.     We  hope. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  293 

A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 
By  IAN  MACLAREN 

Heroism  is  as  great  in  daily  life  as  iu  battle.  We  live  beside 
heroic  figures  perhaps  not  recognizing  their  greatness.  Plain,  sim- 
ple surroundings,  daily  scenes,  everyday  people,  the  accustomed 
language  of  daily  life,  may  all  take  on  noble  proportions. 

A  Fight  with  Death  is  a  local  color  stoi-y,  for  it  gives  the  dialect, 
the  way  of  life,  the  character,  of  certain  people  in  a  remote  part  of 
Scotland.     It   is   a   story    of   noble   type,    presenting   a   character 
ideal — a  country  doctor  lighting  for  the  life  of  a  humble  patient. 

The  world  will  always  appreciate  any  story  that  finds  the  ideal 
in  the  actual;  it  will  appreciate  it  all  the  sooner  if  it  is  written,  as 
in  this  case,  with  plenty  of  action,  vivid  character  drawing,  natural, 
everyday  language,  and  touches  of  pathos  and  of  humor,  all  so  com- 
bined that  the  story  rises  to  climax,  and  wakens  s>Tnpathy. 

A  Fight  with  Death  is  the  third  of  a  series  of  five  simple,  ex- 
quisitely pathetic  stories  of  Scotch  life,  entitled  A  Doctor  of  the  Old 
School,  printed  in  the  collection  of  stories  called  Beside  the  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush,  by  Ian  Maclaren, — the  pseudonym  of  Rev.  John  Wat- 
son. The  author  was  bom  in  Manningtree,  Essex,  in  1850.  He 
gained  a  large  part  of  his  education  in  Edinburgh  University,  and 
has  spent  many  years  in  intimate  touch  with  Scotch  life.  In  addi- 
tion to  Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush  Dr.  Watson  has  written  a  num- 
ber of  books,  the  most  notable  being  Days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  The 
Upper  Boom,  and  The  Mind  of  the  Master. 

Drumsheugh's   grieve.     Driimsheugh   is  tenant  of  a   large   farm.     The 

"grieve"  is  his  farm  manager.     • 
Greet.     Cry. 

A  certain  mighty  power.     Death. 
Sough.     Breathe. 
Thraun.     Perverse. 
Shilpit.     Weak. 
Feckless.     Spiritless. 
Pushioned.     Poisoned. 

Kirny  aitmeal.     Oatmeal  with  full  kernels. 
Buirdly.     Strong. 
Fecht.     Fight. 

Haflin.     A  stripling, — half-grown. 
Dour  chiel.     Stubborn  fellow. 
Caller.     Fresh. 
Oxters.     Armpits. 

Grampians.     Mountains  in  central  Scotland. 
Byre.     Cow-barn. 
Thole.     Endure, — permit. 
Fraikin'.     Disgraceful  action. 
Glen  TJrtach.     A  valley  in  the  highlands. 


294  CRITICAL  COMMENT 

Jess.     The  doctor's  old  horse. 

Goon  and  bans.     Gown  and  bands, — clerical  robes. 


THE  DAN-NAN-RON 
By  FIONA  MACLEOD 

Are  there  strange,  mystical  forces  in  the  world  that  affect  us  in 
spite  of  ourselves"?  Or  do  our  own  actions  rebound  upon  us  and 
make  life  '^heaven  or  hell"  as  the  case  may  be?  These  questions 
that  we  ask  when  we  read  Macbeth  come  to  us  when  we  read  Fiona 
Macleod's  Dan-Nan-Rdn. 

The  Dan-Nan-Rdn  is  not  wholly  a  story  of  mysticism  built  on  the 
idea  that  the  weird  flute-"song  o'  the  seals"  could  so  thrill  one 
who,  perhaps,  drew  his  ancestry  from  the  seals,  that  he  would  go  out 
into  the  wild  waters  to  live  or  die  with  his  ancestral  folk.  The  story 
suggests  all  that.  It  hints  at  strange  descent,  magic  melodies, 
wraiths  of  the  dead,  and  weird  powers  beyond  man.  This,  no  doubt, 
combined  with  unusual  setting,  frequent  use  of  the  little-understood 
Gaelic,  weirdly  musical  verse,  and  romantic  action,  gives  the  story 
an  unusual  atmosphere  of  gloom  and  shadow.  At  heart,  in  plain 
fact,  the  story  is  psychological.  A  man  on  whose  soul  hangs  the 
memory  of  a  crime,  maddened  by  grief  at  the  death  of  a  fervently 
loved  wife,  tormented  in  his  evil  hour  by  a  deadly  human  foe  who 
subtly,  with  compelling  music,  plays  upon  his  superstitions,  plunges, 
in  the  violence  of  his  madness,  into  the  sea.  From  that  point  of 
view  the  man's  own  soul  scourged  him  to  his  death. 

The  whole  combination  of  weird  atmosphere,  tragedy,  giief,  con- 
science, and  superstition,  is  brought  together  in  an  artistic  form  that 
leads  to  a  giimly  startling  catastrophe — the  final  mad  fight  with  the 
seals.  This  is  no  common  story  of  sensational  event.  It  is  a  great 
human  tragedy  of  grief  and  conscience,  played  to  the  weird  music 
of  the  north  as  if  by  a  Gaelic  minstrel  endowed  with  mystic  powers. 

There  is  something  mystic  indeed  in  Fiona  Macleod.  William 
Sharp,  1856-1905,  the  Scottish  poet,  editor,  novelist,  biographer, 
and  critic,  lived  a  successful  life  as  man  of  letters.  He  did  more, 
for,  beginning  in  1894,  he  used  the  name,  "Fiona  Macleod,"  not  as  a 
pseudonym  but  as  that  of  the  actual  author  of  the  most  unusual, 
brilliant,  and  altogether  original  series  of  poems  and  stories  ever 
written.  Not  until  Mr.  Sharp's  death  was  it  found  that  Fiona  Mac- 
leod and  William  Sharp  were  one  and  the  same  person.  The  whole 
story  is  apparently  one  of  dual  personality.  All  this  adds  to  the 
strange  fascination  of  Fiona  Macleod's  stories  and  poems. 

Eilanmore.     An  island  west  of  Scotland. 

The  Outer  Isles.     The  Hebrides,  or  Western  Isles,  west  of  Scotland. 

The  Lews  and  North  Uist.     Islands  of  the  Hebrides. 


CRITICAL  COMMENT  295 

Arran.     An  island  west  of  Ireland. 

Inner  Hebrides.     Islands  of  the  Hebrides  group,  not  far  from  the  coast 

of  Scotland. 
Runes.     Mystical  songs. 
From  the  Obb  of  Harris  to  the  Head  of  Mingulay.     From  one  end  of  the 

Hebrides  to  the  other. 
Grain  spioradail.     Spiritual  song. 
Barra.     A  southern  island  of  the  Hebrides. 
Galloway.     The  extreme  southwestern  coast  of  Scotland. 
The  Mmch.     The  strait  between  the  Hebrides  and  Scotland. 
Caisean-feusag.     Moustache. 
Mo  cailinn.     My  girl. 
Kye.     Cattle. 

Berneray  of  Uist.     A  small  island  north  of  North  Uist  in  the  Hebrides. 
The  Sound  of  Harris.     The  sound  between  North  Uist  and  Harris  in 

the  Hebrides. 
Anna-ban.     Fair  Anna. 
Anne-a-ghraidh.     Anna,  my  dear. 
Gheasan.     A  charm,  magic  spell. 
Geas.     Charm. 
Sinnsear.     Ancestors. 

Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig.     Anna,  daughter  of  the  line  of  Gilleasbuig. 
Ru'  Tormaid.     A  place  in  the  Hebrides. 
Corbies.     Ilavens. 
Bata-beag.     Small  boat. 
Corrie.     A  hollow  in  the  side  of  a  hill. 
Ann-mochree.     Ann,  my  tantalizer. 
The   black   stone   of  Icolmkill.     A  famous   stone   at   Icolmkill   in  the 

Hebrides. 
Oisin  the  son  of  Fionn.     A  character  named  in  Gaelic  legends. 
Skye.     A  large  island  close  to  the  western  shore  of  Scotland. 
The  Clyde.     The  great  estuary  of  the  river  Clyde,  in  the  southwestern 

part   of   Scotland,    one   of   the   most    important   shipping   centers   of 

Great  Britain. 
Byre.     A  cow  house. 

Loch  Boisdale.     An  inlet  of  South  Uist  in  the  Hebrides. 
Loch  Maddy.     A  small  inlet  in  the  Hebrides. 
Pictish  Towre.     An  ancient  stone  construction. 
Ban  Breac.     The  Spotted  Hill. 
Maigstir.     Master. 

Skua.     A  large  sea  bird  something  like  a  gull. 
Liath.     A  small  fish. 
Smooring.     The  fireplace. 
Rosad.     A  charm. 
Sgadan.     Herrings. 
Fey.     Doomed. 
Ceann-Cinnidh.    Head  of  the  Clan. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  FOR  CLASS  USE 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SIMON  AND  SUSANNA 

1.  What  is  the  advantage  of  having  the  two  characters, — Uncle 

Remus  and  the  little  boy? 

2.  What  makes  the  introduction  effective? 

3.  What  advantages  are  gained  by  the  little  boy's  criticisms? 

4.  Show  how  the  story  maintains  its  interest. 

5.  What  character  distinctions  ai*e  made  in  the  story? 

6.  Show  how  the  story  is  made  harmonious  in  every  detail. 

7.  Write  a  story  in  which  you  present  an  ignorant  man  of  some 

familiar   type   telling   to   a   neighbor   an   exaggerated   story 
founded  on  a  somewhat  ordinary  event. 


THE  CROW  CHILD 

1.  Show  that  the  language  of  The  Crow  Child  is  superior  to  the 

language  of  The  Adventures  of  Simon  and  Susanna. 

2.  What   distinctly   literaiy   effects  does  the  author   produce? 

3.  Make  a  list  of  the  words  by  which  the  author  prepares  the 

reader  for  Ruky's  transformation. 

4.  What  is  the  purpose  of  the  story? 

5.  Make  an  outline  that  will  show  the  principal  divisions  of  the 

story. 

6.  Show  that  every  division  of  the  story  is  necessary. 

7.  Write  an  original  story  in  which  you  transmute  a  real  experi- 

ence into  a  wonder  story  with  a  moral  effect. 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  GREAT  BELL 

1.  How  does  the  story  show  itself  to  be  a  legendary  tale? 

2.  How  is  the  simple  story  given  movement  and  force? 

3.  Show  how  the  interest  is  focussed  on  the  bell  rather  than  on 

the  girl. 

4.  How    does   the   author   make   the   various   sounds    of   the   bell 

effective  in  the  story? 

5.  Point  out  the  poetic  elements  in  the  story. 

6.  Write,  in  poetic  form,  some  legend  of  America,  "The  Indian 

Bride  of  Niagara,"  for  example. 

296 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  297 


THE  TEN  TRAILS 

1.  Show  in  what  way  the  story  is  highly  condensed. 

2.  Expand  any  part  of  the  stoiy  into  the  lull  form  it  might  have 

if  not  told  in  the  form  of  a  fable. 

3.  How  might  the  story  have  been  told  differently  if  it  bad  not 

aimed   at   a   moral"? 

4.  When  is  it  of  advantage  to  wTite  fables? 

5.  Write  an  original  fable,  no  longer  than  The  Ten  Trails,  about 
high  school  students. 


*o' 


WHERE  LOVE  IS,  THERE  GOD  IS  ALSO 

1.  Make  an  outline  that  will  show  the  structure  of  the  stoiy. 

2.  Why  did  the  author  have  Avdeitch  help  more  than  one  person? 

3.  Show  how  the  use  of  realistic  detail  helps  the  story. 

4.  What  characteristics  make  the  story  interesting? 

5.  Make  a  list  of  the  epigrammatic  expressions  that  occur  in  the 

story.     How   do   they  add  to  the  effect? 

6.  What  is  the  principal  lesson  taught  by  the  stor>'? 

7.  Compare   this   story   with    Eliot's   Silas   Marner,   Leigh   Hunt's 

Ahou  Ben  Adhem,  Lowell's  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal, 
Longfellow's  The  Legend  Beautiful,  and  Henry  Van  Dyke's 
The  Other  Wise  Man. 

8.  Write  an  allegorical  story  of  some  length,  using  realistic  char- 

acters from   daily  life,   leading  to   an  effective  climax,  and 
presenting  a  high  ideal  of  conduct. 


WOOD  LADIES 

1.  Point  out  the  different  steps  in  the  action. 

2.  What  different  persons  take  up  the  search?     What  is  the  effect 

of  the  constant  additions  to  the  number  of  searchers? 

3.  Why  did  the  author  have  little  children,  five  and  seven  years 

old,  play  principal  parts? 

4.  Trace  the  emotions  of  the  mother  from  the  beginning  of  the 

story. 

5.  How    did   the   mother,    at    different    times,    explain    the   child's 

absence? 

6.  Why  does  the  author  narrate  nothing  that  is  impossible? 

7.  Point  out  passages  that  suggest  the  supernatural. 

8.  Tell  the  story  of  the  little  girl  in  the  "greeny  sort  of  dress." 

9.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  setting?     What  gives  occasional  relief 

from  the  setting  and  thereby  emphasizes  it  all  the  more? 
10.  How  does  the  style  of  the  story  add  to  the  effect? 


298  SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

11.  Show  in  what  ways  the  story  expresses  delicate  fancy. 

12.  What  is  the  truth  of  the  story? 

13.  Write  an  original  story  of  supernatural  beings,  using  sugges- 

tion rather  than  statement,  and  avoiding  harsh  and  horrify- 
ing events. 

ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

1.  Show   the   steps    by   which    the    author   makes    us    realize   the 

soldier's  mental  condition.     His  physical  condition. 

2.  By  what  means  does  the  author  present  the  setting?     The  prin- 

cipal plot  elements? 

3.  What  previous  events  are  indicated  but  not  told?     Why  are  they 

merely   indicated? 

4.  Trace  the  steps  by  which  we  are  led  into  full  sympathy  with 

the  love  story. 

5.  What  means  does  the  author  take  to  increase  the  interest  of  the 

story  as  it  nears  the  end? 

6.  Characterize  the  different  subordinate  characters  introduced  in 

the  story.     Tell  why  every  one  is  introduced. 

7.  Show   that   the   ending   of   the   story   is    entirely    appropriate. 

How  is  it  made  emphatic? 

8.  Write   a  story  in   which  you   show  the   moving  effect   of  any 

deep  love,  such  as  love  for  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  or  chil- 
dren; or  else  write  a  somewhat  restrained  story  of  romantic 
love. 

A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

1.  What  effect  is  given  by  the  question :     "Well,  uncle,  is  there 

any  noos?"  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  ending  of  the 
story? 

2.  Show  how  the  character  of  old  Sam  Gates  is  essential  in  the 

story. 

3.  Show  how  every  part  of  the  story  is  possible  and  probable. 

4.  Why  did  the  aviator  take  Sam  Gates  with  him? 

5.  Point  out  the  characteristics  of  Sam's  captors. 

6.  Show  that  Sam's  character  and  actions  are  consistent. 

7.  Show  that  realism  and  local  color  give  important  contributions 

to  the  story. 

8.  How  is   Sam  unknowingly  made  an  important  person?     What 

is  the  value  of  this  importance  as  a  part  of  the  story? 

9.  Why  should  Sam  so  quietly  resume  work  on  his  return  home? 
10.  Write  a  story  in  which  some  person  of  quiet,  secluded  life  is 

suddenly  placed  in  an  unusual  setting  and  in  unusual  circum- 
stances- 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  299 


MOTI  GUJ— MUTINEER 

1.  Point  out  all  that  contributes  to  local  color. 

2.  Point  out  all  that  shows  intimate  knowledge  of  elephants. 

3.  Show   how   the   author  has  made   the   work  humorous. 

4.  Show  that  the  story  has  a  deiiiiite  coui'se  of  action  that  leads  to 

a  climax. 

5.  Show  in  what  ways  the  story  is  highly  original. 

6.  Write  an  original  story  in  which  you  use  local  color  as  a  back- 

ground for  a  story  of  animal  life.  You  may  write  about  a 
horse,  or  cat,  or  dog,  but  in  any  case  you  must  make  your 
stoiy  have  action  and  lead  to  climax. 


GULLIVER  THE  GREAT 

1.  "What   advantage   is   gained   by   having   the   story   told   in    the 

club? 

2.  How  is  the  dog  made  the  central  figure? 

3.  What  is  the  climax  of  the  story? 

4.  Give  the  steps  in  the  presentation  of  the  dog's  character. 

5.  Tell  how  we  are  made  to  sympathize  with  the  dog. 

6.  What  suggestive  effect  is  gained  at  the  end  of  the  stoiy? 

7.  Write  a  story  in  which  you  awaken  sympathy  for  some  dumb 

animal  by  suggesting  that  it  has  almost  human  emotions. 

SONNY'S  SCHOOLIN' 

1.  What  is  the  advantage  of  the  monologue  form? 

2.  How  is  conversation  indicated? 

3.  Point  out  the  separate  incidents  that  make  up  the  story. 

4.  What  advantage  is  gained  by  the  use  of  dialect? 

5.  Point  out  elements  of  goodness  in  Sonny. 

6.  What  is  the  character  of  the  father?     How  is  it  presented? 

7.  Tell  why  Miss  Phoebe  Kellog's  school  was  superior  to  all  the 

others. 

8.  Show  in  what  way  the  author  has  produced  humorous  effects. 

9.  Write  an   original  story  in  which   you   tell  what  happened  to 

Sonny  when  he  came  to  your  school. 

HER  FIRST  HORSE  SHOW 

1.  Why  does  the  author  introduce  us  to  his  characters  in  the  midst 

of  the  horse  show? 

2.  How  does  the  author,  in  the  beginning  of  the  story,  make  the 

situation  entirely  clear? 


300  SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

3.  What  speeches  and  actions  in  the  early  part  of  the  story  serxe 

to    make    the   action   in    the    latter    part   of    the   storj'   seem 
natural? 

4.  How  is  the  girl's  daring  act  emphasized? 

5.  In  what  ways  does  the  author  make  it  seem  probable  that  the 

girl  could  gain  opportunity  to  ride  the  high-spirited  horse  at 
the  horse  show? 

6.  Show  in  what  ways  the  conclusion  is  particularly  effective. 

7.  Write   an   original   story  concerning  a  school   athletic   meet   or 

contest  in  which  one  of  the  students,  by  unexpected  skill  and 
courage,  wins   the   day. 

MY  HUSBAXD'S  BOOK 

1.  What  is  the  character  of  the  husband   (a)   as  seen  by  himself? 

(b)   as  seen  by  the  wife?   (c)   as  seen  by  the  reader? 

2.  What  is  the  character  of  the  wife? 

3.  What  produces  the  humor  of  the  storv? 

4.  What  is  the  advantage  of  having  the  wife  so  slow  to  see  her 

husband's  real  weakness? 

5.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  last  sentence? 

6.  At  what  is  the  satire  directed? 

7.  Write    an    original    story   in   which    you   satirize,    in    a    kindly 

manner,  some  common   failing  in  high  school  boys  or  girls. 

WAR 

1.  How  are  we  made  to  s^Tupathize  with  the  young  man? 

2.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  detailed  description? 

3.  How  is  the  emotion  of  the  storj'  presented? 

4.  How  does  the  author  make  the  storv'  increase  in  emphasis? 

5.  Why  is  the  incident  of  the  apples  introduced? 

6.  Why   is   "the   man   with   the   ginger  beard"   brought   into   the 

storj'  ? 

7.  What  impression  does  the  stor\'  leave  upon  the  reader? 

8.  Write  a  story  in  which  you  arouse  indignation  at  some  great 

world  evil  by  making  the  reader  realize  its  effect  on  one  in- 
dividual. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MONSTERS 

1.  What  is  the  pui'pose  of  the  phj'sician's  notes  at  the  beginning 

and  at  the  ending  of  the  storv? 

2.  Show  how  the  author  has  given  story--interest  to  scientific  ma- 

terial. 

3.  Point  out  the  characteristics  of  the  different  characters. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  301 

4.  Trace  the  development  of  the  story  to  its  climax. 

5.  By   what   means   does   the  author  make   his  scientific   material 

clear  1 

6.  How  does  the  author  arouse  our  sympathy? 

7.  Point  out  the  ways  in  which  this  story  differs  from  most  others. 

8.  Write  an  original  story  in  which  you  turn  some  scientihc  in- 

formation into  storj'  form  by  making  definite  characters  per- 
form a  series  of  actions  that  lead  to  a  climax.  You  may 
choose  something  as  simple  as  the  pumping  of  water  from  a 
well,  the  action  of  electricity  in  lighting  a  lamp,  or  the  burn- 
ing of  a  piece  of  coal. 

A  DILEMMA 

1.  Point  out  all  the  ways  in  which  the  author  prepares  for  the 

puzzle  at  the  end  of  the  stoiy. 

2.  Show  in  what  way  the  author  makes  the  story  seem  reasonable. 

3.  Show  in  what  way  character  description   adds  to  the  interest 

of  the  story. 

4.  How  does  the   author  emphasize  the  puzzle? 

5.  Write  a  sequel  to  the  story,  giving  a  solution  for  opening  the 

box,  but  leading  to  a  new  problem  as  difficult  as  the  first. 

THE  RED-HEADED  LEAUGE 

1.  How  does  the  opening  lead  one  to  think  the  storj'  has  unusual 

interest  ? 

2.  Show  how  the  author  manages  to  keep  the  mystery  to  the  end. 

3.  Outline  the  parts  of  the  story. 

4.  Point  out  touches  of  unusual  originality. 

5.  What  are  the  characteristics  of  Sherlock  Holmes? 

6.  What  is  the  author's  method  in  telling  the  story? 

7.  Show  how  the  author  uses  conversation. 

8.  Write    an     original    story    involving    mystery,    leading,     with 

sufficient  action,  to  a  climax,  and  depending  upon  the  use  of 
deductive  reasoning. 

ONE  HUNDRED  IN  THE  DARK 

1.  Point  out  the  advantages  derived  from  the  setting. 

2.  How  much  of  the  story  depends  upon  character? 

3.  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  literarv  theories  presented? 

4.  How  does  this  story  differ  from  A  Dilemma? 

5.  How  many  separate  stories  are  contained  in  One  Hundred  in 

the  Dark? 

6.  Give  the  several  possible  solutions  of  the  principal  story. 


302  SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

7.  What  part   did  Peters  play  in  the  principal   story? 

8.  Of  what  value  are  the  hearers'  comments  on  the  story? 

9.  How  does  the  story  differ  from  most  other  stories? 

10.  Write  a  story  of  school  life,  presenting  a  problem  capable  of 
several  solutions,  but  leaving  the  reader  to  make  the  final 
solution. 

A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

1.  Show  in  what  w^ay  the  first  few  paragraphs  give  an  unusual 

amount  of  information  in  small  space. 

2.  What  is  our  first  impression  of  Jimmy  Valentine? 

3.  What  are  Jimmy  Valentine's  good  characteristics  as  seen  in  the 

early  part  of  the  story? 

4.  What  are  the  characteristics  of  Ben  Price? 

5.  By  what  method  does  the  author  give  the  characteristics  of  the 

minor  characters? 

6.  How  do  you  account  for  Jimmy  Valentine's  reformation? 

7.  How  did  Ben  Price  find  where  Jimmy  Valentine  lived? 

8.  How  does  the  author  give  the  impression  of  a  contest? 

9.  Why  did  Jimmy  Valentine  ask  for  Annabel's  rose? 

10.  What  forces  are  brought  into  full  play  at  the  end  of  the  story? 

11.  Why  do  we  admire  both  Ben  Price  and  Jimmy  Valentine? 

12.  Write  an  original  story  in  which  you  show  the  full  establish- 

ment of  naturally  good  characteristics,  and  the  development 
of  a  spirit  of  sacrifice.  Make  your  story  rise  to  a  surprising 
conclusion. 

BROTHER  LEO 

1.  In  what  way  is  the  style  appropriate  to  the  theme? 

2.  Show  how  the  author  has  gained  unity. 

3.  What  makes  the  story  seem  true  to  life? 

4.  How  does  Brother  Leo  differ  from  other  men? 

5.  What  ideals  does  the  story  present? 

6.  Why  did  the  author  make  the  events  of  the  story  so  simple? 

7.  Write   a  character  study  of  some  person   who   has   unworldly 

ideals, — an  old  lady,  a  sister  of  charity,  a  member  of  the 
Salvation  Army,  a  missionary,  or  a  devoted  scientist. 

A  FIGHT  WITH  DEATH 

1.  What  advantage  is  gained  by  the  use  of  dialect? 

2.  How  is  the  story  made  to  appeal  to  our  sympathies? 

3.  How  is  the  country  doctor  made  heroic? 

4.  Point  out  all  the  ways  in  which  the  doctor's  character  is  empha- 

sized. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  303 

5.  How  much  of  the  worth  of  the  story  is  due  to  local  color? 

6.  Point  out  examples  of  pathos;  of  humor.     Why  have  both  been 

used? 

7.  Write  a  story  of  heroism  in  ordinary  life.     Use  the  slang,  or 

the  dialect  of  daily  life  as  you  have  actually  heard  it,  as  a 
means  of  increasing  the  effect.  Be  sure  to  make  your  story 
tell  of  action  as  well  as  of  character.  Make  it  rise  to  a 
climax. 

THE  DAN-NAN-RON 

1.  Why  is  pei*sonal  appearance  emphasized  in  the  beginning  of  the 

story? 

2.  Point  out  examples  of  poetic  fancy. 

3.  Show  how  the  author's  style  of  writing  contributes  to  the  effect 

the  story  produces. 

4.  Show  how  great  a  part  belief  in  the  supernatural  is  made  to 

play. 

5.  How  much  of  the  story  depends  upon  character? 

6.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  verse? 

7.  What  keeps  the  story  from  being  merely  sensational? 

8.  What  part  does  madness  play  in  the  story? 

9.  What  is  the  author's  purpose  in  using  so  much  Gaelic? 

10.  Show  in  what  ways  the  story  is  true  to  ordinary  mental  action. 

11.  How  do  you  account  for  all  the  events  that  take  place? 

12.  How  does  the  author  give  the  strong  atmospheric  effects? 

13.  In  what  ways  is  the  story  unusual? 

14.  What  gives  the  story  its  great  power? 

15.  How  does  the  story  affect  you? 

16.  Write  an  original  story  in  which  you  make  conscience  play  a 

great  part,  especially  when  spurred  on  by  superstitious  feare. 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

BERKELEY 

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